


El Clasico

by moon_star



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, Football | Soccer, Jock Derek, Jock Stiles, M/M, Open Relationships, Slight Stydia, Slow Build, Stydia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_star/pseuds/moon_star
Summary: They play soccer for the opposite teams.What could possibly go wrong?





	1. February 13, 2016

**Author's Note:**

> a lot of the scenes were like inspired by a certain song, and i will try my hardest to put that in the notes.
> 
> also, title comes from what the game real madrid v. barcelona is called. 
> 
> i hope you like. 
> 
> x,

“Let's set each other's lonely nights  
Be each other's paradise  
Need a picture for my frame  
Someone to share my reign  
Tell me what you wanna drink  
Tell you what I got in mind  
Oh I don't know your name  
But I feel like that's gonna change”

 _Company_ ~ Justin Bieber

 

“You’re all useless,” screamed Coach Finstock, his arms crossed against his chest staring the entire team down, before setting his eyes on Stiles and gritting through his teeth, “ _Useless_.”

And okay, Stiles knew that already, thank you. Thank you, _very_ much.

Yes, he wasn’t at the top of his game today.

Yes, he knew that this game against the Wolves was the semi-final.

And yes, he knew from their past games that the Wolves were the strongest team out there, and that they were supposed to “take them down.”

And okay, yes, he knew better then to keep the ball from the rest of the team in an attempt at doing what he was good at, which was _scoring_  goals and _winning_ games. Thanks.

But in his defense —not that he _thought_ he needed one, but for the sake of posterity, and in case someone else thought he needed some kind of defense, excuse, or whatever —they were already down by a point, they were at 3-2, and they had twenty minutes to go. He had to do this. He had to fly past the defense. Align himself. And score. Twice.

But no.

Nope.

As soon as he had taken the ball from the opposite side of the field, and he was toying with the defense —a brooding, good looking as fuck, 10/10 would bang, defense — fucking Jackson had to body slam him and steal the ball from him. But he didn’t stop there. Oh _no_ , instead of running with the ball and trying to make a goal because, you know, that is the purpose of this fucking game, _scoring_ , the asshole had to turn around and punch him.

In the face.

 _Twice_.

Busting his lip.  
  
_Mother. Fucker._

Stiles backed up to swing, but as it turns out, as soon as Jackson punched him, Scott —Stiles’ best friend, brother from another mother and another father, listen, they aren’t blood related, who cares— ran from his defense position, at an almost unreal speed, across from the end of the field and onto midfield checking Jackson, making Danny shove him against Stiles, forcing Stiles to bitch slap Leo, he meant Theo, it was Theo. He bitch slapped Theo — who then turned and punched him on the other side of his face, and didn’t stop there. Oh, no, the asshole shoved him to the ground and _kicked_ him in the ribs with his fucking cleats.

The Wolves just stood there, staring at them awestruck —no really, they were shocked, it was as if this was the first time they had ever seen a team turn against themselves and go H.A.M. on their own ass. They backed up, some putting their hands on their hips, others crouched down, and watched as the referees, the coach, assistant coach, benchers, and even some of the parents from the stands ran on to the field to break the team apart.

Damn, all they really needed was a comfortable seat—could that be so simple— and maybe some popcorn while they were at it.

After a good solid two minutes, okay maybe five, the team settled down and they stopped bickering and punching each other. All but Jackson, of course because he’s a real asshole. He’s like the asshole to top all other assholes.

The asshole king.

The assholiest.

And instead of, oh you know, stopping, the asshole kept struggling to free himself from where Danny, his best friend —poor Danny, poor, poor, _poor_ Danny — and Coach Finstock had him locked down against the grass ten feet from the rest of the team. His eyes fixed on Stiles as Stiles sat on the grass, his legs opened at his sides, and a hand pressed against his ribs.

As soon as their eyes locked, he started screaming shit like, _“Let me go, let go of me,”_ and _“Danny fucking let go”_ and _“Fucking let go of me or I swear to god.”_

Stiles rolled his eyes at that mess, and sent a silent prayer at the sky, real thankful that he wasn’t batshit whack like him, because he was whack —a _mess_ — but not _batshit_ whack. There was a _significant_ difference.

He looked at Danny who was shaking his head at him and Stiles shrugged slightly, an apology of sorts, a sort of apology because it wasn’t all his fucking fault. But the movement hurt him and he felt a sharp pain at the back of his spine and the back of his head. Fucking assholes. He reached his free hand to press it above his eyebrow where he felt cool ooze against his hand. Fuck, he had bled. He shook his head slightly, and instantly regretted the movement.

He turned to look at Scott who, bless him, wasn’t injured. As soon as they made eye contact, Scott wrinkled his nose at him, pointed to his bottom lip where the dried blood rested and he clearly wasn’t too pleased with it, but hey, and for the fifth time, it wasn’t his fault. It was Jackson’s. Speaking of which, Stiles turned to him again and flipped him off, the asshole.

Immediately, he growled, “I’m gonna fuck you up, Stilinski. Just you wait. I’m gonna fuck your shit up.”

Stiles chuckled at that, not caring that his ribs protested.

Jackson wouldn’t do shit.

Okay, wait, he might.

Maybe.

There was a chance he actually would try.

A big chance.

But, not right now.

And when he did try, Stiles would handle it.

So.

“Suck my dick, Jackass” he said earning a giggle from Scott.

But that earned him an earful from Finstock.

“Useless,” he shouted. “Specially you, Stilinski. How many times have I talked to you about pulling this shit during the games!”

Stiles scoffed.

He knew he wasn’t on his A game today. He wasn’t numero uno. He wasn’t on top.  
  
But he was _not_ as bad as the others. So, fuck Finstock. _Fuck_ him for expecting Stiles to change his game. He knew this was how he was from day one and he kept him in the team because even though he was being “useless” right now, he was the reason they had even made it past the county finals.

Stiles knew that.

Finstock knew that.

The team knew that.

So, Finstock could suck his dick, too.

Wordlessly, knowing that the team was out of the game, knowing he got his ass disqualified for the rest of the season, Stiles rose to his feet, wincing a bit, and walked past Finstock’s protests and shouts, towards the Den —yes, as cliche as that was and as honestly _unoriginal_ as that shit was, that’s what the Wolves called their fucking stadium’s locker rooms, go figure— Scott following behind him. He was ready go home, get in his bed, call Lydia over —he could really use the warmth of her skin and her mouth—and then sleep it off for the rest of the weekend.

He would deal with the rest until Monday.

And he sent a silent thanks to not only Jesus, but also Melissa —Scott’s mom— because thanks to her persistence, she managed to get his dad to agree to go on a cruise for their second honeymoon and, although thinking about that grossed Stiles the fuck out, that meant he wouldn’t have to explain anything to his dad for another four days.

“You okay,” asked Scott once they were inside the locker room.

“I think Theo bruised my fucking ribs,” he said taking off his cleats and turned to Scott who was already slipping into his jeans. “Fucking asshole.”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

“Good,” said Scott as he pulled off his jersey, exposing a couple of bruises along his chest.

Stiles winced.

 _Shit_.

“Sorry, dude,” he said gesturing to the bruises.

Scott shook his head. “You would’ve done it for me.”

“Damn straight,” said Stiles because he would have.

“He’s gonna bench you for the next three games, not that they count as much anymore, but he’s gonna bench you.”

Stiles snorted.

“He has no option _but_ to bench me, dude. I’m literally disqualified for the rest of the season, but whatever. Let’s hurry.”

Scott nodded in response.

And with that, they quickly finished changing, gathered their belongings, and headed for the door.

“I’m hungry,” said Scott as he stepped out, Stiles right at his heels. “We should get some pizza or maybe stop by for burgers and fries.”

Pizza. Double cheese bacon burger. _And_  curly fries.

That, all of that, sounded _heavenly_ right now.

“Both, let’s get both. We should definitely get b—” begin Stiles, but was stopped by a leathered jacket hand. Which, _what the hell_?

“What the hell?” he asked as he turned to face the leather jacket and realized that, _damn_. 10/10 would definitely bang. More than once. In several different positions. Breakfast. Lunch. _And_ dinner.

“A word,” said the defender for the Wolves, as he leaned against the wall, wearing a pair of black torn jeans, black boots, a white v neck shirt, a black leather jacket, a ridiculously good looking face with a set of intense eyebrows pulled together over the prettiest —yes, he thought _prettiest_ , fuck off— hazel eyes he had ever seen. He dropped his hand and tilted his head to the side, signaling for Stiles to follow.

So, maybe he liked what he saw out there.

And wanted to tap it.

Stiles had managed to woo him.

Somehow.

And he wanted to follow him. He really, really, wanted to but he also wanted to bolt out of the place and not deal with Finstock because that would be the most annoying thing to happen to him ever, so. Yeah.

“Um,” he said weighing his options: getting yelled at by Finstock in front of the team versus not getting yelled at by Finstock in front of the team.

He eyed Scott, asking for his opinion on these two— yes, Scott could read his mind, not only twins could do it— but he just shrugged.

_Really?_

Really.

He shrugged.

“Okay, fine, but make it quick,” he said and the boy straighten up, looking taller, broader, and hotter. _Goddamn_. “Wait for me in the car dude, I’ll be out there in a minute.”

Scott nodded, extended his hand and Stiles gave him his duffel bag and keys. And Scott was gone.

Stiles turned to followed the boy or rather his ass because it was speaking Stiles’ language. And it was making Stiles salivate a little, okay _a lot_. That ass was clearly put in this world to bring tears of joy to _anyone_ that ever laid eyes upon it. And _holy fuck_ , Stiles wanted to get himself some of that bounce. _Bad_.

Stiles licked his bottom lip, and sank his front teeth in drawing some blood, choking back down on a whimper threatening to scape his mouth and continued to walk in silence, fidgeting slightly behind him, he wasn’t sure what the boy wanted but Stiles would give it. All of it. _Repeatedly_. Until the boy screamed his name, remembered nothing but his name.

As he thought of the smoothest way to break the silence —and honestly, he was kind of glad he didn’t get to say this line because, while he wanted to be smooth, his brain wanted to ask if the boy’s milkshake brought all the boys to the yard, it would have been mortifying— Stiles was abruptly interrupted because the boy stopped in front of him, turned to face him, and his face was harsher now then it had been before. His eyes, the palest shade of green under the light, fixed on him, brows pulled together.

“What the hell was that?” asked the boy.

And what?

“What was what?” asked Stiles.

“You just _ruined_ the game. And I’m asking you: _what the hell was that_?”

“Oh,” said Stiles. Slightly confuse because first of, he didn’t know he was gonna get yelled at by a complete stranger. Handsome, hot as hell, but still a stranger.

“Is this a game to you?” pressed the boy.

Stiles sighed, disappointed.

He didn’t know what he was expecting, because he honestly didn’t, but he didn’t really think he’d get yelled. Okay, fine, he thought he was about to get his phone number at the very least, but you know, sometimes his guesses aren’t always the best. Mostly never.

Albeit, he did do wrong by not sharing the ball, but at the same time.

“Did _you_ miss the part where Jackson _threw_ the first punch?” asked Stiles, because had he?

The boy rolled his eyes so hard, Stiles thought it would injure him.

“Did _you_ miss the part where _you_ think _you’re_ an all-star? And _you_ think _you’re_ carrying the team on _your_ shoulders? And _you_ think the game is _all_ about _you_?”

The boy paused to give Stiles a chance to respond, his eyebrows going so high up his forehead, looking at Stiles as if he were trash. And that pissed Stiles off completely because, first of, he _was_ trash. But _not_ regular trash. He was Grade A, recycle, _antique_ worthy, trash and he deserved to be regarded as that.

“Listen, pal —”

“Don’t call me pal,” interrupted the boy.

“Whatever,” continued Stiles. “You won. We’re disqualified. You get to move to _State_. Shouldn’t you, oh, I don’t know, be _thanking_ me? Instead of fucking _riding_ my dick this hard?”

And Stiles couldn’t help but picture the boy on his dick. It’d be such an amazing view.

 _Fuck_.

But, the boy’s nose flared and he lounged forward, pushing Stiles against the concrete wall.

 _Hard_.

And okay, fine, Stiles liked this kind of thing. _Rough_.

But not right _now_.

Okay, fine who was he trying to lie to, he did wanted it right now.

But he pushed that thought as far away as he could and he tried to push himself off, but the boy slammed him against the wall again, holding him in place, long and hard, cluttering his space. Stiles’ heart thumped in his chest a bit faster, and he licked his lips, tasting a bit of blood.

This is how he died.

He was about to get massively mulled, when he just wanted to get massively fucked.

“ _Thanking_ you?” the boy finally said, his voice hoarse, as if he was trying to suppress his anger. “You really think I would _thank_ you for making this game go to _shit_? You think that I ought to be happy and jolly because you disgraced our stadium? Because you disgraced our team? Because you disgraced our track record?”

Stiles heaved. “You—”

“Shut up.”

“Fuck,” he said trying his hardest not to sound like a little boy and failing miserably.

“Do you know what’s going to happen after this?” he asked not really asking Stiles. “We’re going to be known as the team that made it to the state championship based solely on the fact that _you_ , an idiot, led his team astray, practically made them turn on each other, and got yourselves disqualified. _No one_ is going to believe that we got to state on our own merit because of _you_. _No one_ is going to fucking _believe_ that we have the _skill_ to get to where we get to after this. And _you_ want me to fucking _thank_ _you_ and stop riding your dick this hard? Do you have _any_ idea how much I want to punch you in the fucking face?”

And Stiles hadn’t thought about it _that_ way.

He really hadn’t it.

Fuck.

Guess that if he were punched, he’d know he earned it — _deserved_ it, really, like many other times before for being so godddamn out of line —doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try to dodge because he would he really would.

Still. He _did_ fuck up.

“Listen, you’re right,” he begin because the boy totally was. “And I’m so—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” said the boy, pulling Stiles off the wall slightly, and then slamming him against the wall again with one hand and pointing at him with the other. “You hear me, don’t you fucking dare.”

Stiles nodded.

Fine he wouldn’t apologize. He didn’t really want to anyway. Not really.

They stared at each other intently.

Stiles was, against his better judgment —the one that told him not to even bother that he didn’t need this kind of fixation— memorizing the smell of his cologne, the depth of eyes, the tip of his nose, the faint flush across his cheeks, the faint stubble against his jaw, and the shape of his lips. He licked his, wanting to lean in. _Damn_ it.

“Hey,” said Stiles, his voice hoarse, his throat suddenly dry because it was starting to get a little hot, and he was starting to feel some type of way. “Um, can you, oh, I don’t know, let go of me because dude this is getting weird. And I have places to be.”

The boy nodded shifting off Stiles, but not really letting him go.

“Next season, I’m going to be a senior, and I _will_ be captain of the Wolves,” said the boy his eyebrows pulling together again. “We _will_ see each other again and _you will_ pull your shit together. You _will not_ do this shit again. You hear me? Because if you do, I _swear_ to God…”

Stiles nodded not having to wait for the boy to finish his sentence. He knew he meant, _I will fuck you up_.

And he wasn’t the first one so he needed to grab a ticket, get in line, and wait his turn.

But, in retrospect, Stiles wouldn’t _all_ together be against the idea of getting fucked up by him. Fucked. By him. He meant. Getting fucked by him sounded pretty amazing, to be honest.

“So,” Stiles said after a couple more seconds of their epic stare down. The first one he’d ever had —well, no, scratch that. He often participated in stare downs with his chemistry teacher. And his coach. And his father. And Scott’s mom. And the mail man, because that old man was hella creepy.

 _Huh_.

Okay, so maybe he was a constant player at the stare down game.

But, he needed to go not only because he was still trying to avoid Finstock, but he was also starting to get a boner and that would _not_ be cool. It would, however, be hella cool if the boy got one too, and then they could help each other out. But it didn’t look like that was the way this was going.

So.

“Dude,” he said with a sigh.

That got the boy to pull off him completely, and reached his hands to hold on to Stiles jacket, pulling on it as if to straighten him out. Checking him.

And no one checked Stiles.

He snorted and he reached to pull on the boy’s leather jacket. Checking _him_.

The boy huffed before he backed up a couple of inches, gave Stiles a once over, his eyes setting on Stiles’ face, lounged forward, as if he wanted to rip his throat out _with his teeth_.

And that turned Stiles on so much more, so, so much more. _Holy fuck_.

Why’d he have to be such a masochist?

“Oh my _God_ ,” he gasped ducking from the boy, and that got him to turn, and stalk away without another word.

Stiles wanted to get his name. His number. His Twitter. His Instagram. His YouTube. Something. Anything, and everything. He would like, comment, _and_ subscribe to all.

But the boy walked away and Stiles ducked out of The Den, and out into the parking lot where Scott waited at the passenger’s seat of his jeep.

“Dude,” begin Scott. “ _That_ was long.”

Stiles nodded, but said nothing.

“What’s wrong?” asked Scott. “Did Finstock find you?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Derek do something to you?”

Stiles shook his head.

Wait.

“Who’s Derek?” Stiles asked.

Scott looked at him skeptically.

“Derek Hale,” said Scott, making it sound slightly like a question. “You just talked to him outside the locker room, remember? Leather jacket?”

“Oh. _Oh_. That’s his name?” he asked and Scott nodded. “Okay, that’s good because you know it was going to get weird if I had to continue to refer to him as ‘the boy’ in my head for the next couple of days. And that sounds _painfully_ dumb.”

Scott looked at him slightly confused before asking, “How do you not know Derek Hale?”

How was Stiles _supposed_ to know Derek Hale?

“How do _you_ know him?” he asked.

“Everyone knows him,” replied Scott.

“ _I_ don’t.”

“ _Almost_ everyone knowns him,” amended Scott.

“How?” asked Stiles, because really. How?

Scott shifted in his seat before he spoke.

“His house was set on fire with everyone still inside about eight years ago, or maybe less —I actually can’t remember—”

“Oh. My. _God_ ,” interrupted Stiles remembering it all. “No one died, —‘thank God’ my dad said— but the house collapsed on itself and the Hales, most of them, moved to New York. Except their uncle, who is also the Wolves’ coach, he and his wife and kids stayed behind to take care of their academy and their other businesses. His parents travelled between Beacon Hills and New York a lot all this time because they have a lot, _a lot_ , of money —they’re like, over the top loaded—and they like practically own everything in Beacon Hills, plus they have the school and it’s not like they could pick up and leave altogether, though most of them actually did. How can I not remember this, Scott?”

“You do,” said Scott lifting his right hand his way for emphasis, as if pointing out the fact that he had just said what Scott was going to say. But then again, they communicated telepathically. It was a thing they did. Who was to say that he wasn’t _just_ reading all of this off Scott’s mind?

“It must have slipped my mind,” he said nodding. “But, wait, since when are the Hales back?”

“Don’t know, man.”

Stiles bit his bottom lip.

How could he not have seen the boy—Derek. How could he not have seen Derek around town before today? It made no sense considering that he made it his business to know everyone and everything that happened in Beacon Hills because it was a small city, and where he had lived all his life and he _cared_ about it. Okay, fine, he didn’t. He was still listening in on the police conversations using his father’s old radio, even after his dad had asked him to stop several times, whatever. But he needed to listen to it for, like, background noise as he pretended to do his homework.

“What did he want?” asked Scott.

“To slam me against wall. _Repeatedly_.”

“ _Gross_.”

“Not in a _sexy_ way,” said Stiles regretfully, but quickly amended his answer. “Okay, it was _very_ much in a _sexy_ way. But _not_ in a _sexual_ way, because he didn’t want to lock all of this,” he said flailing at himself, “down. He just wanted to talk. Whatever.”

“About?” asked Scott.

“The game.”

“And what happened?”

“I don’t know, dude.”

“Stiles.”

He groaned.

“Well, buddy, _apparently_ , I gotta get my shit together if I want his dick,” responded Stiles.

Scott chuckled.

He chuckled?

_He chuckled._

The fucker.


	2. March 11, 2016

“Seen you from afar  
Wondered who you are  
Wondered what you’re like  
Think you’re just my type

And now I’m dreaming of you

Want you, yes I do  
But you never knew it  
Think you’d suit me fine  
Want you all the time”

Dreaming of You ~ Cigarettes After Sex

  
“Derek, I am so proud of you,” said Laura, his older sister, wrapping her hands around him for the tenth time that night. “I know I already said it, but, I really am so happy and proud, Derek. You did so amazingly good. I just knew you had it in you.”

It had been a week and a half since the Wolves had won the State Championship and that was still all people could talk to him about. And Derek rolled his eyes at each and every person that praised him. Or even if the praise wasn’t directed at him, if he so much as _heard_ someone praising _anyone_ while he was in the same room, he rolled his eyes so far back in his head he could see white spots.

Proud?

Good?

Amazing?

Where?

_Where_?

They had made it to state. And won. Whoop-de- _fucking_ -do.

And it wasn’t to say that it didn’t _mean_ anything to the team because it actually meant _a lot_ to them and the school.

And considering that this was his first year back in Beacon Hills, in his family’s private school, and in the soccer team it _should_ mean a lot to him. It really, _really_ , should. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that their qualifying game, the game that landed them in the finals, had been made into nothing but a fucking joke.

He hated Stilinski.

_Hated_ him.

He wasn’t going to lie, the boy was impressive. Everything from his speed, to his dribbles, to his technique, to his movements, to his every single pass —when he _actually_ fucking passed — was impressive. Flawless, even.

He was impressively gifted where others lacked and he was so small and thin, but in the field he was a mother fucking monster —savage. He could literally fly through the field, dodge out of every attack, pass through defense without so much as a scratch and score.

Talented.

He was _fucking_ talented.

That was it though. And perhaps that was all he had going for him at that moment and all he needed to get through life because his attitude, his disrespect towards his team and his team mates, and to the game left little to be desired. And Derek hated it. He hated him.

So, of course, he had to let him know to pull his shit together.

And he hoped to see him again, to play against him.

He really did.

And if in the next game he hadn’t pulled his shit together he was going to slam him against the wall again. Just to make sure his words sunk in. To make sure he heard him and was actually pulling his shit together because come August, they were going to be against each other again. More than fucking once. And if he pulled that shit again, he was going to punch him in the throat.

_Repeatedly._

So, he didn’t respond. He just sighed.

“Come on, Der,” said Laura, pulling his attention back to her. “Stop brooding. You just led your team to state, _state_ , Der. And won! Why’re you so fucking pissed?”

He rolled his eyes.

He had told his sister plenty of times why. She was the first person he spoke to after speaking with Stiles. He had called her as soon as he had left the locker room and just ranted about what had happened. She was usually in the stands watching the game because well, as the Assistant Director for the Juniors, she was encouraged to attend all soccer games with the rest of the staff, but she mostly showed up for him. She knew he needed the extras support these days, but she had been out with the flu.

So, he did the next best thing which was call her and bitch about the game, about the shit Stilinski had pulled, about how good that fucking kid was out on the filed, about how he had talked some sense into him, about how ridiculously attractive the little asshole was. Laura had listened to all of it, or at least, he really thought she had listened to it.

Plus, it’s not like he told her about it just once. So, she knew perfectly well how he felt about the whole ordeal.

“You know why,” he said.

“Derek,” she said. “You gotta get passed that. It’s not good for you to still be holding on to all this frustration —or anger— just, please, let it go.”

He sighed.

“I fucking can’t, Laura. I can’t.”

How could he move past it when he felt so fucking disrespected, ridiculed.

“Listen,” she said in an almost whisper, drawing her eyebrows together the way she did when she was getting ready to say something serious, something important, something Derek would not like. “You really, _really_ , have to, Der.”

He knew he had to move past it —not forget it or really get over it because it’d be fucking impossible —but he at least had to just simply move on so that he could lead the team next year.

“I probably won’t be able to until he proves to have gotten his shit together. After I play against him, and he doesn’t pull this shit again, then I’ll be able to move on.”

“You’re being a bit unreasonable.”

“Maybe so,” he said drawing in a deep breath. “You’re probably right, but you know how I am, how I get these days.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said with a thin smile, her eyes softening.

Laura took a deep breath, hopped off his bed, walked over to his door, closed it and then sat back down next to him.

“Der,” she begin in a small voice, looking down at her hands, confirming that there really was something going on. “I’m going to tell you this because you need to grow the fuck up, and also because you’re my little brother and I know you don’t fucking like surprises —specially, not after, you know, hmm, never mind— I mean, I personally think that you shouldn’t be such a sourpuss —”

He sat all the way up. “Just tell me.”

“ _Fine_. I overheard mom talking to Uncle Peter and —stay calm— he, _they_ , want to have Stilinski transfer to our school—”

“What?”

“Uncle Peter likes him —praised him to no end, really—because he sees him for what he is: talented and useful. So, he asked mom to do whatever she needs to do to have him transfer out of his current high school and have him enrolled in our school—”

“No—Laura, I— no. _Why_?”

How could his uncle want to do that?

It was as if he was confirming what Derek had been thinking about all this time: had Stilinski not caused his team to get disqualified, he would have probably scored two more goals, and then the Wolves wouldn’t have won. Stilinski had practically handed them the game, and by default, he had practically handed them the State Championship.

It felt like a punch in the face.

“Der-”

“What did mom say?” he asked because if his mother said she’d do it, than she would make it happen no matter what.

“Uncle Peter showed her the game, she saw what he sees in Stilinski, and she’s going to talk to his father before the start of the Spring Break Pack Camp,” she said.

Derek shook his head.

“She wants to have him transferred before the end of this month, Der.”

“She can’t —” begin Derek.

“It’s gonna happen if it hasn’t already,” Laura interrupted him.

There had to be something he could do, something he could say, to prevent this from happening. If he let this happen, then how would he be able to face his team mates again? How could he face Stilinski? What would he say to him when he next saw him, _Oh, well, apparently, I made you an empty threat because you’re shit is together, by our coach’s standars. Can you come win the State Championship for us next year? Again?_

What the fuck?

“Laura we, our academy, can’t just randomly take players from other teams because it increases our chances of winning!” because they really couldn’t.

Laura looked at him then.

“We do that all the time, though,” she said.

And what? No, they didn’t.

“No we don’t.”

Laura rolled her eyes.

“Ennis? Boyd? Isaac? Deucalion? I could go on,” she said.

Derek shook his head harder this time.

He couldn’t have possibly known that that was a thing they did. He had only been back since Christmas. There was no way he could have known about this. What the hell was his uncle turning their school into? Could that be why the Cyclones didn’t have decent players? Because their school had taken them all? So, then, was Stilinski really the one carrying the team?

God.

Derek should have stayed in New York.

“I have to talk to mom about this, Laura. She can’t take him. I have to stop her somehow,” he said shuffling on his bed, making an attempt to get up.

“Oh no you won’t,” she said reaching her hands to his shoulders and pushing him back down. “You’re not _supposed_ to know that this is something that’s it’s being planned. No one from the team’s supposed to know, not yet. Plus, if you go to them now, they will know I told you, I _cannot_ , I repeat, I _cannot_ have told you about this. And you cannot under any circumstances question mom about this. You hear me?”

Derek sat back down.

“Why?” he asked.

Suddenly, his sister looked a little guilty.

“Laura,” he pressed.

“Don’t get mad,” she said, sheepishly. “But I kind of, sort of, no —not ‘kind of’— _I_ , was, like the reason, Der, ugh, I was the one that _threw_ the idea of getting him on the team. There, I said it.”

He gaped and looked at her. Stunned.

“I know I said that I know you dodn't’ like surprises, but… surprise!”

Derek never thought his sister could do something so against him. A big part of him was not just shocked, but slightly hurt.

“Laura, how could you?” he asked.

“Derek, don’t look at me like that,” Laura said and rearranged herself on his bed.

Derek just crossed his arms and continued to look at her the same way. He was hurt, damn it.

She ran her fingers through her hair before speaking again.

“When I spoke with you, right after the game with the Cyclones, you seemed so keyed up, so fucking excited, and you kept _talking_ about Stilinski so much, so _fucking_ much, you have literally talked to me about him _every single fucking day_ —”

“No I haven’t!” he protested because he hadn’t, but his sister went on as if he hadn’t just denied her allegations.

“—and I just, Derek, it has been the first time you get this excited, this _overwhelmed_ about something, _someone_ , since your accident from two years ago. And you kept saying you wanted to play with him again. You kept telling me you wanted to see what he really was, how he really played when he was not being a selfish little prick, and you wanted to see how he would fair against you when you finally got back to your proper position, which is what you will be doing next season. And I just, Derek, I was so _incredibly_ happy that you were showing so much _interest_ in him that I _wanted_ to make sure I help you with as much as I could and I thought transferring him would be the best way to go about this.”

He hated to admit it, but, it was true.

Derek had been talking about him for the past few days.

A lot.

But he didn’t know his sister would think he wanted him as a team mate.

“I want to play _against_ him, not _with_ him,” he said.

Laura ran her fingers through her hair again. “Yeah, well, I know that _now_.”

Derek sighed leaning his head against his headboard. All he could think about was what Stilinski would think of this —of him. If he would think of them as pathetic for wanting him on his team after seeing what he was capable of doing. If he would even want to —if he’d even consider it.

Now that playing with him was a possibility, part of Derek wanted him to accept transferring to his school and to play with the Wolves. He wondered if he would be any different with them, then with his current team. If he would think them worthy of his presence in the field and be willing to work with them against the other teams. Or, if he did decide to transfer and remain the same: ruthless and selfish.

He wondered if Derek could lead him to victory, instead of him leading them.

Derek wanted to show him what he was capable of doing. What he could do, what he was working towards. His injured leg was almost completely healed, _almost_ back to normal—only, it never would, he knew this— and he had been working on switching from a right kicker to a left kicker, and he was almost there. He knew that he would be able to leave his defensive position next season, _finally_ , and he would be able to take his position as a forward.

He wondered how he would fair against him.

He wanted to believe that he would be at his level.

“Sorry, Derek,” said Laura. “I really am.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “More importantly, do you think mom already talked to him?”

Laura pursed her lips. “I don’t know.”

Derek closed his eyes, resigned.

“I do know that the Cyclones are playing a game tomorrow night —a friendly— against the Thundercats. Stilinski was suspended for the season, but the season is technically over. He might play, and I know for a fact that mom has made plans to go see him in action herself. If mom is completely and utterly set in her decision, she will tell you because you’ll be captain of the team. She will want to take you with her.”

Even if his mom didn’t tell him and didn’t want to take him with her, now that he knew Stilinski might play, he was going to go see him.

He really wanted to.

He needed to.

He had to.

“I will go with you if you want to go see him,” said Laura, reading his mind.

There was no use denying it.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Come, let’s go have dinner.”

Derek got of his bed, and followed his sister down the stairs.

“Just in time,” said their mother. “Dinner is done!”

“Derek,” said his father, as he finished setting the table. “You and Laura didn’t come help make dinner, you’re on dish duty. Thank you for volunteering.”

“Ugh,” huffed Laura. “I hate washing dishes.”

Their father chuckled before responding.

“Me too, kids, me too. That’s why I helped your mother make lasagna,” he said as he reached for his cup of wine. “And apple pie.”

Derek didn’t really mind washing the dishes so it was whatever.

He sat at the dinning room, eating the lasagna, his mind on tomorrow’s game. His mind on Stilinski handling the ball, his legs moving with the ball, smoothly, recklessly, flawlessly. Derek felt warm just thinking about it.

“What do you think about it, Derek?” his mother asked pulling his attention to her and away from Stilinski.

“Sorry, mom,” he said sheepishly. “I wasn’t listening.”

Laura smirked at him, knowing full well where his mind had been.

“Would you like to go with me to a soccer game tomorrow? I could really use your opinion on a game?” she asked with a smile.

And there it was.

Laura had been right.

She always was though.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure, yeah. Where?”

His mom smiled. “It’s a surprise.”

Derek just fucking absolutely hates surprises.

“Now, dear,” said his father. “You know Derek hates surprises.”

“This will be a good one,” responded his mother as she took a sip of her wine.

And he was extremely thankful that Laura had told him about the ordeal earlier otherwise he would be on edge the entire fucking time until tomorrow. Not that knowing he was going to go see Stilinski play make him feel any less on edge. If anything, it was making him slightly anxious.

“Ugh, mom you know I don't like surprises,” he said.

His mom laughed.

“Oh, Der, I think you’ll like this one.”

Derek knew he wouldn’t.

But, he couldn’t wait to see him.

He wanted nothing more than to see him.

  
_~ * ~_

  
_March 12, 2016_

 

Derek sat in the backseat of his mother’s car, anxious as fuck.

His mother still hadn’t told him where they were going, who they were going to go see play, why she wanted to attend said soccer game, and she didn’t know that Laura had already told him, so she was still dropping comments like:

_I’m so excited!_

_You’re going to like this Der._

_I can’t wait._

And Derek wanted to pretend to be excited, but his mother had to know he didn’t like surprises, so if he acted surprised, she would know he knew. And if he acted like he was hating the idea of a surprise, which he was, his mom would be upset because she said it was time for him to move on and to leave all of his emotional baggage behind, like it was that easy. So, he opted for sitting in silence, his attention on his phone.

Laura talked to his mother about the Academy —about the changes she wanted to make now that she would get to be Assistant Director for the Seniors—and mom gave her feedback on them.

Derek didn’t understand Laura’s reasoning for wanting to handle the Academy. She used to say she wanted to be an attorney, but she ended up becoming a professor —a history doctor to be exact, and she seemed over the moon with it. She wasn’t old enough to become a doctor, but she obtained her PhD in six years — _six_ —and set the bar incredibly high for the rest of the Hales. She had always been such an overachiever.

“Ugh, I hate public schools,” said Laura as they rounded on Beacon Hills High School.

The high school was nothing special, it was what the average high school looked like: big brick buildings, a bit dirty and shabby. You could practically _smell_ the school from a far.

Derek held his breath as his mother found a parking space next to a Beacon Hills Sheriff’s cruiser.

“Your uncle is supposed to meet us here,” said his mom as they hopped out of their car and begin following the crowd to the back of the school where Derek presumed the field was. “Cora and Malia want to come watch the game.”

That’s when Derek decided now was a good as time as any. It was better to get it out of the way now, before his psychotic uncle dropped by.

“Why’re we here?” he asked.

“To watch a soccer game,” his mom replied off hand.

“But why?”

His mom didn’t answer, he didn’t press for an answer, and Laura just looked ahead keeping her hands wrapped around herself as if she was trying to not get any dirt on herself. Derek really thought she was a bit too much sometimes.

He rolled his eyes and continued to follow the crowd, looking around to see if he saw anyone he knew or recognized, but found no one. Not that he was surprised. The Wolves never really attended other high school games that were not their own. It was not their thing. Yet, and thanks to Laura’s big mouth, he was here.

Once they found a seat at a reasonable distance from the field, because it was crowded and Derek had no idea that friendly games ever got this packed, Derek immediately scanned the field and —he didn’t want to say he felt disappointed because he really didn’t think that it was a thing that he should be feeling, but _fuck it_ , that’s how he felt— he was disappointed at the fact that he immediately caught the back of Stilinski’s number 24 hoodie being clutched by a pair of perfectly manicured hands.

Derek let out a sigh.

A sigh that Laura did not miss.

Why couldn’t Stilinski be fucking committed to the game?

She placed her hand on his knee, and he immediately knew she had seen him when he saw them, and it really bothered him. He didn’t _like_ Stilinski and she was making it look like he did— she was misunderstanding him. Yes, he kept thinking about him like a mad man. But, the boy was _interesting_.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Fine.

He will never admit to it to anyone, but after seeing him in the soccer field and after talking to him in the Den, Derek had become a bit —how should he say it without making him sound like a creep— obsessed? He had gone home and immediately searched for anything and everything he could dig up on Stilinski. Had gone through almost two years’ worth of Beacon Hills High School FaceBook posts just to see Stilinski. Had watched the pictures and videos that others shared of the team and, of course, many had him in them but he was never tagged. And so, Derek came to the conclusion that perhaps he didn’t have a FaceBook. He didn’t have one either, but he had created one just to ghost a bit.

Derek continued to stare into the field, trying to see the other players warming up, but his attention kept going back to Stilinski’s firm lean back still being groped by the same hands. As he turned to look away, the girl released his back, only to move her hands to his hair, and maneuvering them sideways. Now, and thanks to that, Derek could see that she was a cheerleader.

Of course.

She broke the kiss, _finally_ , and almost immediately Stilinksi’s nose trailed along her cheek, up to her temple, and down her cheek again before pulling back to stare into her eyes and his lips begin to move, his hands remained on her, his long fingers gripping her hips and Derek wondered what he was saying, what his fingers felt like. But then immediately shook his head. How could he be thinking about that now?

What he really wanted was for him to stop fooling around and get his ass on the field like the rest of the team and show what he was made of. What he was capable of. But, no. He was set on showing the cheerleader what his mouth, his hands —those fucking hands—were capable of doing. And Derek really hated him for it.

More cheerleaders rounded them at the same time that his sister, Cora, and his cousin, Malia, sat next to him pushing Laura farther from him, which was fine because that blocked her pitying gaze from him and it wasn’t fine because he needed some support. Damn it.

“Hey Der,” said his sister, nudging their shoulders together.

“Hey,” he responded.

His cousin just waved at him and he waved back. It was still awkward between them.

“Nephew,” said his uncle as he sat next to Derek’s mom.

“Uncle,” said Derek not even looking at him.

“Stiles and Lydia are back on,” Cora said and Malia pouted. “Come on, we _knew_ it would happen.”

“Yeah, but they were _off_ just yesterday!” whined Malia.

“It never lasts. They’ll probably be off by the time the party starts.”

“Who?” asked Derek because he needed to be distracted from Stilinski and his cheerleader.

Cora and Malia sighed, but his sister was the one to reply, “Stiles and Lydia.”

And yeah, Derek did not know who that was.

“I don’t know who that is.”

Cora rolled her eyes.

“The ones eating their faces in front of the entire soccer field. Come on, Derek, keep up.”

It still amazed Derek that they had both gotten back in town in December, and yet, Cora, his little sophomore sister, knew almost everything and everyone relevant. But, it might also have to do with the fact that Malia was her age and they had basically hit it off.

And oh.

_Oh._

Stilinski was Stiles.

“Oh,” he said because what else could he say.

“They’re basically like the most popular couple at their school, actually, you know what? They might be the most popular couple of _all_ the high schools in Beacon Hills —that includes our Academy, by the way. They have, like, been _dating_ since ninth grade. But they’re like, um, they’re —huh, I don’t even know _how_ to say it, _what_ to call it, because I didn’t even _know_ it was a _thing_ —anyway, apparently, they’re more of an on-and-off kind of thing. Sometimes they’re on, like now, sometimes their off and they date other people, and then get back together and do each other,” Cora went on.

Derek scrunched his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Erica,” said Malia pointing to a cheerleader with curly blond hair and a dangerous looking smirk, who was leaning in to whisper in Stiles’ ear at the same time that the girl in his arms pulled back, releasing her grip on his hair, but moved her hand to hold his. “Seems to think that the only reason they’re still together after all this time is because Stiles’ dick too bomb.”

Cora and Laura —who had also been listening in— laughed and Derek looked at Stiles lap. And felt extremely horrible for doing so.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Erica actually _knew_ this for a fact!” said Cora.

“Girls,” warned his mother.

“What?” asked Cora. “It’s true mom, there are rumors about it.”  
  
“Cora!”

Cora sighed, but then whispered in Derek’s ear. “They say he’s _big_.”

Derek blushed as he looked into the field again.

As he looked at Stiles again.

He was _big_.

Goddamn.

That was something he definitely did not need to know.

After a couple more minutes of Stiles’ and Lydia’s PDA, and of small whispers between his mom and his uncle, the whistle blew signaling five minutes before the start of the game. The cheerleaders begin to move out of the field, all but Lydia who turned to give Stiles another long, steamy kiss, and then she was walking out of the field, her strawberry blond hair bouncing over her shoulders.

Derek watched Stiles watch her walk off the field and Derek wanted to know why he wasn’t running into the field now that she was gone.

_Get in the field_ , he begin thinking. _Get in, damn it._

But, as soon as she was completely out of the field, Stiles turned towards the bleachers, the crowd screamed and Derek licked his lips. Stiles smiled at no one in particular, it seemed. It was as if he knew he had a role to play and he was doing it just to make the crowd happy. To rile them up. And the crowd immediately exploded, screaming and chanting his name.

It was fucking _surreal_.

Derek had _never_ witness something like that, not at a high school game, anyway.

He looked around the bleachers, seeing the people go wild, burrowing his brows together, he turned back to face the field to find Stiles looking straight at him, his lips quirked into a small smirk. Derek set his jaw, and Stiles winked as if willing Derek to loosen up.

He would not, damn it.

He _would_ not.

“Did he just _wink_ at us?” asked Malia over the crowd’s uproar over that wink.

“Ugh, I hate him,” said Cora.

“I don’t,” his cousin said, a smile on her lips.

“I thought you liked him?” he asked his sister.

She shook her head. “Malia.”

He nodded.

Of course she would.

Derek turned to hold Stiles’ eyes for a second longer, staring him down. Or attempting to anyway..

“Stilinski!” yelled Coach Finstock coming to stand next to Stiles. “Get your ass _off_ my filed!”

Stiles rolled his eyes before taking a seat next to the other players on the bench.

“Warming the bench? Is he not going to play?” asked his mom.

How could he know?

“I don’t—” he being but was interrupted by his uncle.

“Technically, he’s _not_ supposed to play until August, but the season _is_ officially over. Stiles can play in the friendly if he’s permitted to do so by the school and coach,” his uncle informed. “I cleared it with the school earlier and they are permitting him to play, it might just be that Finstock wants to teach Stiles a lesson —but, he’ll cave and let him play if he wants to win the game,” finished his uncle with a smirk.

The game was a mess, and quite frankly, Derek wasn’t paying attention to any of it. Stiles wasn’t playing, there was no reason to watch. Instead, he opted for watching Stiles scream, pace, grunt, punch the air, trying to command — _will_ — the team to play as he asked, as he screamed for them to. He kept screaming things like:

_Damn it, Jackson, roll the ball!_

_Pass, son of a -pass!_

_You’re not gonna make it, pass!_

_Liam, Liam, damn it Liam!_

_You have to help Scott, Liam!_

_Theo stop standing around!_

_Even Greenberg could’ve blocked that!_

_The ball isn’t gonna come to you, Theo, come on!_

_Theo pass it to Parrish!_

_Go, Pa-fuck!_

_Good job, Scott._

_Yes! Yes! Yes!_

_Danny, like that Danny, like that!_

_What the fuck!?_

_Mother fuck!_

_You had it, you fucking had it!_

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

He kept going.

He kept asking the team to play as if they could do what he said.

Every time the Thundercats scored, he threw his hands and clutched the back of his head swearing so loud, his voice echoed between cheers from the other students in the bleachers. He was beyond frustrated and Derek understood because he had felt like a caged animal the eight months following his injury.

It got so bad that Derek stopped attending the games altogether, and now watching Stiles, he wondered why he hadn’t just stayed home. Why if he knew there was a very, _very_ , high chance that he didn’t get to play, why didn’t he just simply _not_ attend the game? And it wasn’t like he was hovering over Coach Finstock, asking him to let him in. Hell, he barely even noticed him— he made no comment on the plays, he was wrapped in his own head, taking in the game, analyzing every bit of it.

Derek got him.

He really did.

Or, at least he liked to think that he did.

Five minutes into the second half, the score stood at 4-0.

Stiles still stood at the edge of the field, pacing, screaming, and Derek couldn’t help, but want to ask, _scream_ , at Finstock to let him in the game. To let him get in there —not to save the game, but to _play_. That’s all Stiles wanted to do. Get in there and play.

Sure, he wanted to win, because didn’t everyone?

But, playing was really what got to him —Derek, felt like it anyway— winning was just a bonus. Winning was good, it showed that the team was good, that they had played so good they were able to prove it by winning. But just being able to be on the field, and kick the ball didn’t it for Derek. And he felt it was the same for Stiles.

But then again, Derek did tend to be wrong.

After the Thundercats scored another goal, Coach Finstock caved.

He screamed Stiles’ name and pointed towards the field.

Stiles perked up, ran to the bench, pulled off his hoodie, but that also pulled off his shirt, slightly, exposing his toned abs and Derek couldn’t take his eyes off them, off the happy trail that disappeared into his shorts. The crowd, including his sister and his cousin, screamed. Stiles ignored it for the most part, though Derek didn’t miss the blush that spread across his cheeks.

He threw the hoodie to the floor, pulled his shirt down, but not before locking his eyes with Derek’s and winking.

_Again_.

Damn it.

Derek sat up as he watched him wait for the referee to allow him in the field.

The crowd screamed his name. _Chanted_ it, really.

His mother sat up.

His uncle said, “Here we go.”

And Derek knew.

Oh, he so knew.

He did.

It would tip Stiles’ odds in his favor with his mother. His mother was about to see what his uncle— what he— saw in him and she would want him. She would do whatever she needed to do to get him.

He knew it would happen.

The referee blew his whistle, and Stiles ran into the center of the filed.

And Derek, well, Derek held his breath.

 

 


	3. March 13, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who don't know.... the clasico was just this saturday 23... and lmao madrid lost on the second half like they were doing okay, sort of, and it ended at 0-3 what a fucking joke yo
> 
> cristianinhos on tumblr said "once real madrid boost their morale, learn consistency, strengthen the defense, weed out the offense and stop being dumb binches it’s over for you hoes" like same im so bitter fam

Frustration (watching you dance)  
Hesitation (to get in them pants)  
Come closer baby (so I can touch)  
One question, am I moving too fast?

Cause' I ain't leaving alone feel like I could be honest babe  
We both know that we're grown  
That's why I wanna know

How many drinks would it take you to leave with me?  
Yeah you look good, and I got money  
But I don't wanna waste my time  
Back of my mind, I'm hoping you say two or three  
You look good, we came to party  
But I don't wanna waste my time

_How Many Drinks? -Miguel_

 

After almost a month of not being able to play —granted, they were useless, irrelevant games, but still, it was the principle— Stiles got back in the field and crushed the Thundercats.

He wanted to say he single handedly made it happen but, the truth was that he wanted to brag about the fact that he actually worked with the team. He actually set up plays, passed, and helped the others score. He had practically been at the top of his game.

And he wanted everyone to remember that he was capable of doing this.

Specially Derek.

Because, surprise, surprise, he showed up to the game.

Which never happened, people.

Never.

So you know, it had to mean something.

The Wolves were never seen—and he meant never—at any other high school’s games. They thought they were too good to be seen at any public schools, which, go figure, some of them probably were. But then again, The Wolves had taken Boyd and Isaac from Stiles’ high school, so clearly, they didn’t all come from wealthy parents.

Or did they?

He couldn’t even remember much about Isaac—other than the fact that he tried to steal his best friend away from him, the little fucker—let alone Boyd.

In any event, Derek had come to the game.

The Lone Wolf had separated from the pack and made his way down to see the fox— this is where Stiles is the fox, okay? Okay. Stiles really liked that analogy. Like a lot.

Derek had to have come see him.

Stiles just _knew_ it.

Derek had seen that he was in fact fucking capable of working together with the rest of the team, thank you. He had been able to see Stiles in all his glory.

Thank you, thank you, _very_ much.

He couldn’t wait to see his face and rub it in.

Stiles was blissed out.

He was one step closer to getting Derek’s dick.

But not tonight.

Tonight, on the couch at Erica’s party, Stiles had a cup of beer in one hand and Lydia’s waist in the other. And that was all that mattered.

At the moment, anyway.

“I just don’t understand why you’re refusing to take AP Literature more seriously,” said Lydia. “You love reading—you’re practically a nerd—and you soak everything up and actually retain it. Would it _kill_ you to try a little harder?”

Stiles sighed and took a swing of his beer.

She had been grilling him about this since last night and she was not letting up on it. Particularly, since he was sporting a 74 in AP Lit. It wasn’t pretty. And Lydia kept bring up the fact that if he had actually _turned_ in his essay on Hemingway’s work, he would at least have an 80. But no, he had to be a dumbass —her exact words— and _do_ the essay, but _not_ turn it in.

He literally ate her out to her talking about Hemingway. Now, he was gonna get hard any time _anyone_ mentioned his name.

Damn it.

“Lydia,” he begin looking into the crowded living room, everyone and their mother had turned up at the party. “Would it kill _you_ to not talk about that right now? I’d rather us not continue talking about it and just get wasted.”

She leaned in, a breath away from his ear.

“I will _not_ let you fuck me if you get drunk.”

Stiles turned to face her.

“See, _this_ is the reason people keep referring to us as On-and-Off. It’s _your_ fault.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Because I _care_ so much about what anyone has to say about me, right?”

There used to be a time that she did, in fact, care about what people thought about her, whispered about her in the hallways. But, now that seems like such a long time ago. Lydia had grown so much in such little time that it made it hard for Stiles to keep up at times.

Still it was Lydia.

And it was him.

He laughed before he leaned in to press his lip to hers, cautiously. It was getting to the point where she might actually push him away. He blamed Hemingway. And he had plans for tonight. _Plans_.

“I _love_ it when you get like this.”

“And I _hate_ it when you don’t get your shit together.”

Stiles kissed her again, and she let him.

“I’m trying.”

She leaned in, harder this time, licking her way into his mouth. She tasted like peaches, cherries and Vodka.

“Try harder,” she said into his mouth.

He nodded and it was like that was what Lydia wanted as answer because she moved to his lap, straddling him, without breaking the kiss. It was like old times, but better. Because it always got better.

Lydia paid no attention to the people around them, how some of them stared at them, whispered about them, pointed at them, and Stiles paid no attention because they didn’t matter, because they were irrelevant, because they weren’t Lydia.

He set his beer down on the side table and put both of his hands on her hips. She bit his lip and suddenly, and not so surprisingly, he was half-hard already.

“Hey,” he said moving his hands up and down her back before setting them on her hips, and she moved her lips down his chin, across his jaw, and down to his neck. He got completely hard almost immediately and he didn’t not want a repeat from four months ago, where he had come just from her devouring his neck.

He tried again.

“Lydia, bedroom?”

“Mmmm,” she said as she nipped at his ear.

And God, he was so far gone.

They were at Erica’s house so they were for sure guaranteed a bedroom. Not that if they were at a different party, a different house, people wouldn’t leave the bedroom at the sight of them entering the room, regardless of what those people were in the middle of. It was a thing that came with their popularity.

“Come on,” he said because he was ready to have her mouth around his co—

“Actually,” she said removing her lips from his skin. “I have to go find Allison. Told her I’d help her with something, bummer.”

And just like that, Lydia got off his lap.

“Lydia,” he heaved. “You _can’t_ leave me like this.”

“Oh Stiles,” she said leaning down to press her lips against his lips, nipping lightly at the skin. “There’ll be _plenty_ of time for that later.”

“But now’s when I’m—”

“Down boy,” she said to his lap and just like that, she stalked away.

 _Fuck_.

Stiles sat in the middle of the living room with a hard on.

Yup.

This was his life.

Lydia did this to him often enough. He really should be used to it by now. Quickly, he started thinking about anything and everything that would help his dick go soft.

Greenberg.

Dead puppies.

Coach.

Allison’s perverted aunt.

Jackson.

_Gross._

And just like that, he was soft.

In good time too because as soon as he felt better, Scott was at his side.

“Did you see who’s here?” he asked.

And Stiles had not seen anyone remotely interesting but then again, when he was with Lydia, he tended to ignore anything and everything that wasn’t her. And usually, he could concentrate with more than five things at once, so.

“No,” he said, reaching for his beer.

Scott perked up.

“Derek.”

Stiles immediately looked around for him.

“Where?”

“He’s in the backyard by the punch.”

 _Nice_.

He’d get to rub it in his face sooner rather than later.

“Just what I needed,” said Stiles.

Scott gave him a crocked smirk.

He knew.

Oh, he _so_ knew.

Stiles had been talking about Derek constantly, vigorously.

“He’s here with two girls, I don’t know who they are —but one of them looks a little like him, so it might be a sister?”

It didn’t matter.

“Let’s go,” he said getting up.

“Oh,” said Scott. “Sorry, can’t, gotta go help Allison with something.”

What the fuck?

“Allison is taking everyone. What is she doing that she needs this much fucking help? And what’s more important, why didn’t she ask for _my_ help?”

Scott laughed.

“Go bother Derek out in the backyard, shake him up, and then come meet with us in the kitchen.”

Us who?

“Who’s us?” he asked.

“The usual, hurry.”

Fine.

“Okay, but what’s Allison planing?”

“I can’t say,” Scott said looking at his feet.

Scott wasn’t good at holding secrets, hiding things from Stiles. Unless, Allison—his girlfriend of two years—was involved. Because if she was involved and she told him not to say anything, he wouldn’t say anything. And Stiles found it cute. Because Scott was cute. But not right now that he wanted to know what the fuck his girlfriend was planning.

“Choke,” said Stiles.

And Scott laughed.

The fucker.

Stiles rolled his eyes and made his way around the crowd, to the backyard, and to the patio, but not without having to greet the masses, high five them, smile at them, act like he knew who the people were.

It was annoying.

But, again, that was something that was part of his role.

And he tried to play it right because Lydia cared. Despite what she said, despite her denying that she cared, Stiles knew she did. So, Stiles obliged and acted like he also cared. He was actually beginning to think he did.

This had never been a thing that he thought he was going to have to do. Growing up, until he reached the eighth grade, he was part of the unpopular crowd, along with Scott and Erica. He never really thought he’d become the most popular student at their school, he hadn’t been popular— _ever_ —so when it started to happen, when the change happened, he wasn’t prepared.

Shit.

He still wasn’t.

After what seemed like an eternity, he made it to the patio and found Derek and the two girls. He was wearing the same leather jacket, unless he had more than one because Stiles had more than one plain red shirt, more than three red hoodies, so he was sure people also bought more than one leather jacket, and by people, he meant Derek, and by leather jacket, he meant that ridiculous boy and girl magnet Derek was wearing.

Anyway, he was wearing the— _a_ leather jacket, a pair of faded black jeans, no rips this time, but they still looked tight, which thank God, and he was staring right at Stiles. And hey, had he been looking for him all this time?

“Hey,” he said with a wink as soon as he was close enough for Derek to hear him.

Derek set his jaw.

The girls next to him looked at him with a mixture of shock and excitement.

“H-hey,” said the girl with the shorter hair, the one that did not look at all like Derek.

He smiled back at her because why not.

“Who are these lovely girls?” he asked because, again, why not?

They smiled. No, wait, the grumpy one didn’t. She rolled her eyes.

She had to be related to Derek.

“No,” said Derek.

Stiles scoffed.

“No to what, Hale?” he asked with the best Bambi eyes he could manage.

The girls laughed.

“Cora, Malia, go inside,” he said.

Stiles was appalled.

Wounded.

“Come on, Malia,” said, who Stiles could only deduce as Cora, the girl grabbing the other girl’s hand.

“But Derek,” commenced Malia.

“ _Now_.”

Cora pulled on Malia and she groaned in protest.

Stiles smiled at them as they left.

As soon as they were more than four feet away, he turned his eyes to Derek.

“That was a little rude, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Shut up,” said Derek, rolling his eyes.

“Wanted me all to yourself didn’t you?” he teased.

Derek shook his head.

“Not even close.”

Stiles smirked.

He knew when he was being lied to.

“So, you’re here,” he said, moving to stand next to him, looking out into the crowd. “Earlier I said that everyone and their mother had showed. But, I didn’t know you were in the bunch.”

“Didn’t know I couldn’t come,” said Derek.

 _Oh_ , and Stiles _wanted_ him to come.

 _Repeatedly_.

Preferably, screaming Stiles’ name.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “ _Believe_ me, Hale, I _want_ you to come.”

He felt Derek freeze next to him.

And he knew he had him.

God, he was good.

So good.

And he wanted to be real good for Derek.

“Saw you play,” said Derek after a minute of full silence.

Stiles nodded. _He had, he had_.

“You were go—better.”

Stiles nodded again. _He was, he was_.

“Got your shit together.”

Stiles nodded. _He had tried, he had tried_.

“Yeah, I’m capable of doing so, you know? _Being_ _good_ ,” he said turning towards Derek a little.

His stubble was breathtaking and Stiles wanted to feel it against his thighs. It would feel so good, it would be so good. Stiles just knew it would.

“When you want,” Derek said, eyeing Stiles.

“And I _do_ want,” replied Stiles, licking his bottom lip.

He just couldn’t help it. He really did want.

Derek froze next to him again.

Stiles grinned.

“You _need_ to want,” said Derek. “If you plan on getting _any_ better, that is.”

Ouch.

Suddenly, Stiles was seeing red.

Because what the fuck?

Sties was fucking epic.

A fucking beast.

He was _a mother fucking monster_. _In_ Nicky Minaj voice.

“I am better than better,” he said with a bite. “I’ve always been better. Because you did come to see me, right? I was good enough the first time around to the point of you wanting to see me again, right? Because I am right, aren’t I? Or were the Thundercats _that_ interesting?”

Derek laughed.

“Don’t _delude_ yourself,” said Derek. “My sister and cousin wanted to see the game, they don’t really get to experience the life of the _average_ teenager, what with them being separated from all of this,” he said pointing at the crown with his chin, “and they were set on experiencing it. _Any_ game would’ve done it for them, really.”

The asshole.

Fine.

Two could play at this game.

“Well that’s true,” he said because it was true. Stiles had once sat through an entire Barcelona game —Stiles couldn’t even remember who they were up against but it didn’t even matter because any Barcelona game was just the worst, it was a fact —but there had been nothing else to watch. “When one wants to watch a game that badly, any game will do. Just like any team will do for the State Finals. Anyone, _any_ team, can win a State Championship, right?”

Derek turned to him then, his nostrils flaring.

Stiles didn’t stop.

He kept going.

“Yeah, I saw the game,” Stiles spit. “I was there, actually. And you wanna know what I think?”

“Don’t—” Derek said.

“The game —”

“—you fucking—”

“—was a joke.”

Derek huffed.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” he said before punching Stiles.

In the face.

Damn it.

 _Fuck_ , that was something Stiles did not expect. That was something he had not gone in search of, but that was what he got. He wanted to rile Derek up, wanted to remind him that, he and his team are also fucking flawed. His team isn’t any better just because they have things like _team work_ and a  _good coach_ and _money_. That didn’t _magically_ make the Wolves ten times better than the Cyclones. That did not automatically, by the grace of God, make Derek ten times better than Stiles.

Stiles wanted to remind him of that. And get him off his fucking high horse.

As soon as Stiles hit the floor— because he did hit the floor, one punch was enough for him to want to tap out— head first, and some people screamed, others whispered, the music cut off, and the back of Stiles’ head throbbed.

Derek crouched down next to him, pulled him up by his shirt before he spoke.

“Who do you think turned it in to a joke?”

Stiles laughed, his head was throbbing but he was not about to quit now, he was not a quitter damn it.

“You think _I_ turned it into a joke? I wasn’t even playing against you in State, I wasn’t _anywhere_ near you or your team. I might have practically _handed_ the Wolves their shot at State, but your team, _you_ , played mediocre and that’s on you, baby, that’s all on you.”

Derek punched him.

Again.

Mother fucker.

“Fucker,” grunted Stiles as Derek was shoved off him.

Jackson was suddenly there, between Stiles and Derek.

And first of all, Stiles did not need Jackson’s help. But, second of all, he got there so fast Stiles hadn’t even seen him being out in the backyard.

“Back off,” Jackson said to Derek.

“Or what?” asked Derek.

And honestly, what if he didn’t want to back off, Jackson? What then?

“Or, I’ll beat you senseless. You’re not even supposed to be here, Hale. First, Boyd and Isaac. Now, you and your sisters. What’s next? Who’s going to fucking drop by next? Your uncle?”

Derek got up in Jackson’s face.

“Fuck off,” Derek said through tight teeth.

Stiles got to his feet, feeling more lightheaded than he felt on the ground. How many punches to the head had he taken this year? And it was only fucking March.

“Jackson,” he begin, but Scott, Danny, Liam, Theo and even Aiden, Ethan, Boyd and Isaac, were suddenly there.

“Jackson stop,” said Scott, holding Jackson’s shoulder. “This is a party. _Everyone_ and their mother was invited.”

Boyd and Isaac moved to stand closer to Derek, as did the twins.

They were holding a united front.

Jackson didn’t move, though.

And Stiles didn’t shut up.

Why was he like this?

“Jackson,” he said. “Let it go. Derek’s just upset because he just realized that he and his team suck.”

Derek set his jaw.

Again.

“He just hadn’t realize it before.”

“Fuck you, Stilinski,” said Derek with a grunt.

And sure.

Why not?

Stiles still wanted him to.

“Sure,” he said with a smirk.

Derek zeroed in on Stiles, his eyes visibly darker.

Stiles winked at him not caring about the tinge of pain that shot through the left side of his face.

“Shut up,” said Derek.

“Oh, Hale, I know of a _really_ good way to make me,” he said, holding on to his smirk, because see, he lacks survival skills where his dick is involve.

“Hey,” said Scott. “That’s enough. This is a party, stop fucking around.”

Stiles raised his hands up in a _'I haven’t done anything, Scottie, you know I never through the first punch'_ gesture.

Derek nodded once not taking his eyes off Stiles.

“Good,” Scott said with a smile. “Let’s go drown some shots, or something. Come on, buddy,” he continued, reaching for Stiles’ shoulder, “let’s go get you some ice.”

“Okay, fine,” he said.

As Stiles and Scott took a couple of steps forward, Jackson —of course, it had to be Jackson because come on, who else would do it?—had to be an asshole.

“They need to go,” he said, pointing at Derek and the rest of them.

And Stiles wasn’t so sure he wanted Derek to leave. He actually wanted to go inside, simmer, come back outside —unless Derek had moved inside— and talk to Derek. Again. Try to talk to him again. He wanted to say something like, _dude, I know I said somethings, things I didn’t even mean to say —you said some dumb shit, too, don’t act like you didn’t—come on, give me your number and we can meet up so you can kiss my injuries better_.

Hey, that _might_ work.

Probably not.

Definitely no.

 _See_ , this is why he didn’t have conversations in his head, they sucked harder in his head.

“Dude, Jackson,” said Scott, shaking his head. “Stop.”

“They don’t even go here,” whined Jackson.

Stiles rolled his eyes because honestly, what the fuck?

“Let’s go before I get _your_ ass thrown out,” said Stiles.

And just like that, he made his way to the kitchen, where Lydia was waiting for him with a pack of frozen peas an a look that told him he was getting no head for a while. A long, _long_ while.

Damn it.

He screwed up with Derek, when doesn’t he screw shit up though? Like that’s his thing. He doesn’t even know how he’s been managing to not mess up with all the other people he’s hit on. But, then again, all the other people he’s ever hit on don’t hate his guts for ruining a game. The other people basically want to fuck him, want to be with him.

And then there’s Derek, punching him because he can’t stand Stiles.

Stiles sat on the counter next to the sink, where everyone —the usual from his immediate circle— stood there making comments about him being a fucking dumb ass. Thanks, he already knew he was, no need to point it out.

He reached for the bag of peas, and Lydia batted his hands away. Instead, she slotted herself between his thighs and held the frozen peas on the left side of his face.

“Didn’t we just _talk_ about you getting your shit together?” she asked.

And yeah.

But, did that include Derek?

“Academically,” he answered.

Lydia rolled her eyes.

“That bruise better be gone by next Friday.”

And why?

What was next Friday?

“It should be,” he responded, not being sure it would be. He bruised like a peach. There was a high chance that his bruise would last longer than five days. He could still see the bruises from fucking Theo’s cleats from the game against the Wolves last month, that was different, though.

Whatever.

“What’s happening next Friday?”

Lydia smirked and gave him a dangerous look.

And okay, he was liking where this was going already. Last time she did that, they wound up breaking into the Beacon Hills Art Museum during their _The Science of Addiction Exhibition_ and having sex under the very expensive, very uninteresting research that Stiles managed to unlock. Lydia was so turned on. It was on Stiles’ Top 10 List.

But, Allison was the one to explain.

“Auction,” she responded with a big smile.

Okay, and?

“A date auction,” she continued, her smile somehow wider.

And what?

“What?” he asked because what?

She giggled.

Scott smiled.

And Erica responded, “We’re going down to the school gym, and we’re doing a date auction!”

“Who’s we?” he asked.

“Soccer team and cheerleading squad,” replied Allison, giving him yet another toothy grin.

“Why?” he asked. “Is this what you needed help with earlier? Organizing this?”

She nodded.

And, why wasn’t he included in the planning? Because, come on, he could have totally been planning. He was good at planning. Planning was his thing.

“Yes!” she responded clapping her hands together.

“As exciting as that sounds, what the fuck?” he asked because again, honestly, what the fuck?

“Oh, stop,” said Lydia shifting between his legs to face the rest of the group. “We want to do something fun for Spring Break. Obviously, some of us can pay for it, but some can’t. And it wouldn’t be fair for the ones that can’t go not to go, Scott’s words. Whereas I think that those that can pay for it should go, and those that can’t, well too bad. But, Allison wants my good deed of the year to be this. So if I’m doing it, obviously, you’re doing it.”

And that was true.

Once Lydia decided they were going to do something, it was happening. And it wasn’t to say that Stiles didn’t have a say in the matter —because he did, oh he so did— it was more that Lydia was good at persuading him and he always seemed to agree with her in the end. And that was how last summer she had persuaded him to sign up for a two week advanced chemistry camp. It had been atrocious.

Stiles let his head fall back on the cabinet behind him.

“It had better be a good fucking place,” he grunted.

“It is!” squealed Allison.

Scott nodded and Stiles didn’t trust it for one bit, but okay. That was his boy, his bro, and he was going to ignore his better judgment and just go with the flow.

Not that he had another option anyway.

 

~*~

 

I've been walking in the same way as I did  
Missing out the cracks in the pavement  
And turning my heel and strutting my feet  
"Is there anything I can do for you dear?  
Is there anyone I could call?"  
"No and thank you, please Madam.  
I ain't lost, just wandering"

 

Round my hometown  
Memories are fresh  
Round my hometown  
Ooh the people I've met  
Are the wonders of my world  
Are the wonders of my world  
Are the wonders of this world  
Are the wonders of now

 

_Hometown Glory - Adele_

 

 

Stiles sat on the couch in front of his tv watching El Clasico.

And Real Madrid was losing.

Well, shit.

“Fucking shit,” he said as Messi scored a goal, the fucker.

“I told you they’d win,” said Lydia as she sat on the couch next to him, reading _Vogue’s_ March issue, taking a break from her AP calculous book.

Scott and Allison had taken the loaf seat, Erica was sprawled on the carpet, a bucket of popcorn balanced on her belly and her phone in one hand. Jackson, thankfully, was unable to make it. He had caught the stomach virus or whatever. And Danny, was out on a date. Go him.

There were only three minutes left of the first half and Stiles wasn’t feeling confident. On one hand, Suarez was trash and obnoxious, on the other, so was the rest of the team. But, also, what the fuck was up with Cristiano? And the defense? At this point, Scott could block better than Ramos. And Stiles had practically trained Scott himself!

“They’ll pull up,” said Scott, breaking from Allison’s mouth. “There’s still the other half.”

“They better, Scottie, they better,” he responded as he reached for more Doritos.

There was only half a minute left and Ramos was being given a yellow card. Of course. What else was fucking new?

The referee blew the whistle, and the final score for the first half was 2-0.

Ugh.

Ugh.

 _Ugh_.

“Fuck,” he said. “What if they don’t win, Scott?”

Scott shrugged.

“There’ll be other games, bro,” he said with a small smile.

And bless his heart.

There would be other games, but it was, first and foremost, the principal. El Clasico was always kind of a joke, and Stiles had known that all along. Granted, he was a die hard Real Madrid fan, even if he almost always threw a chair at his tv — _almost_ , key word there because he would not, _ever_ , his father would _kill_ him.

Second of all, he had money riding on this thing. Actual money, which he was planning on using to cop up new cleats. His were good for one more month and then they’d bust at the seams. He only had $80 riding on this, and he only had $80 so, if he, by the grace of God because it wouldn’t be by the grace of Real Madrid —those bitches needed to reevaluate their entire careers, bro —won the $80 from Jackson, then he would be able to cop a decent pair for $140; if he lost, then that was the end of it. He would be dead broke, and would not know how he’d be able to afford new cleats at that point.

Lydia had offered to buy them —she could more than afford them —but what kind of man would that make Stiles if he took her money? He needed to work and fast. Summer couldn’t come soon enough.

As he kept thinking of ways to make money during spring break —maybe write some of his stupid classmates’s papers on Dickinson, or maybe make study guide’s for the calculus finals, take someone’s SATs, _again_ —the door bell rang.

“I paid for the pizza, someone get the door,” said Allison.

And damn, true that, she had paid.

“Rock-paper-scissors?” he asked as the bell rang again.

“Fuck that,” said Erica getting to her feet. “I’ll get it, I’m starving.”

Stiles watched the half time recap as Erica got the door. He watched Suarez foul Isco, and not get carded for it. It was ridiculous.

“That fucker!” he yelled at the tv at the same time Erica appeared back in the room.

She had no pizza.

She had no breadsticks.

She had Derek and two other Hales in tow.

And what the fuck?

“They want to see your dad,” she said, going back to the carpet.

His father wasn’t there.

She could’ve just told them that.

Ugh. Erica.

Scott and Allison looked to the Hales, and Lydia just flipped through her magazine.

He took in the sight of Derek, who looked like he was being forced to be there; Peter, coach for the Wolves —wearing his stupid V-neck shirt, exposing his chest hair, _gross_ —a woman who had to be Derek’s mom because she had the same uncanny jaw structure that Derek had, and like Derek, she was gorgeous —yes, he thought Derek was gorgeous, shut the fuck up.

“You picked a bad time Hale,” he said, unfazed —or pretending to be unfazed—pointing to the tv, where the game was still being recapped.

“Ah, you must be Stiles,” said the older woman.

He nodded in response, before sitting back down, placing his elbows against his knees.

“My name is Talia Hale,” she continued with a smile. “I am the head Director at Hale Academy, Private School. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Stiles nodded.

“Mrs. Hale, my dad’s not here,” he said, turning as Lydia shifted in her seat. “He works a double shift today. He won’t be back till tomorrow.”

She looked to every one in the living room, taking in the sight of his group, and then back to Peter and Derek.

“I can see that,” she responded with a smile. “If it’s okay with you, Stiles, I would like to talk to you for a minute.”

Lydia put her magazine down, Erica straighten up, Scott and Allison looked at Stiles.

This was probably about the whole party thing.

It had to be.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hale,” he said. “As you know, I’m a minor, can’t talk to you unless my dad’s here; which, he isn’t by the way because like I said, he’s working a double today. And if this is about the whole party thing from last night, Derek threw the first punch —all the punches, actually— I didn’t even hit him. Not even once. Didn’t even come close to it. Didn’t even want to punch him to begin with.”

Mrs. Hale looked shocked.

“It’s true,” said Scott defensively. “The entire party is a witness to it. He punched him twice.”

Peter actually looked a bit surprised, as if he hadn’t known.

And Derek, Derek moved his mouth as if to say something as his mother and uncle stared him down, as if he hadn’t told them about it, as if they didn’t know, as if — _wait_ , maybe they didn’t? Which, he had to have told them. Otherwise, there would be no reason for them to be there? Unless, he told them Stiles _bullied_ him or _publicly_ humiliated him but didn’t tell them he punched Stiles in return.

Which if that was the case: that was _fucked_ up.

“Derek,” his mother asked looking at him. “Did you punch Stiles?”

Whoop.

They hadn’t known.

“I, uh, mom—” Derek begin.

“That’s alright,” interrupted Stiles, feeling a little guilty. “It’s fine—”

“It most certainly _isn’t_ fine, Stiles,” said Lydia, crossing her legs.

And she was kind of right.

He caressed her thigh with one hand, trying to appease her. She was right, but there was a game he was trying to watch, damn it.

“Okay, it’s _not_ fine,” he amended. “But, I am, as you can see, fine. And as I said, my dad’s not here. If you don’t mind, come back when he’s home or, better yet, don’t.”

The bell rang again and Allison got to her feet to get the door.

It had better not be another Hale.

“Stiles,” begin Mrs. Hale, and Stiles sighed in frustration.

“Mrs. Hale,” said Lydia. “You want to talk to Stiles’ dad about transferring Stiles to your academy—”

“What?” asked Stiles utterly shocked because what?

“—Stiles, not now— please have the decency to do it when his father is actually present.”

Stiles gaped.

What?

What?

How?

How was that even a possibility?

Lydia didn’t know what she was talking about. Which was kind of a lie because she always knew what she was talking about, but what she was saying seemed silly all things considered. Derek hated him. He wouldn’t have asked his mother to transfer him. Or was he trying to make his existence a living hell?

Hale wouldn’t do that, right?

Or would he?

Mrs. Hale nodded. “You’re completely right.”

Allison came back with the pizza set it on the living room table, and Stiles looked to the recap. The second half was about to start and he still had a room full of Hales.

“Stiles,” said Peter. “Think about all the possibilities, all the opportunities, you will have with the Wolves. Don’t let your prejudice against Derek, or your _girlfriend_ decide for you. Come on now, you’re a smarter kid than that.”

Stiles was pissed.

“Thank you for that _thinking_  that I am,” he responded looking away from the tv, where the ball had started rolling. “Now, can you leave or will I have to call the Sheriff because you won’t leave his house?”

Derek looked at Stiles, his jaw set, brows pulled together in a tight grimace.

“We will talk about this when your father is available,” said Mrs. Hale as she ushered Derek and his uncle out the front door.

“My answer now is no,” said Stiles, his eyes on the tv. “My answer will be no then.”

The Hales left, and the game started, no one made an attempt to move for the pizza, Stiles made no comment as Suarez, the fucking idiot, tripped Isco. He couldn’t really concentrate on the game.

His eyes were watching it, but his brain was somewhere else. It was wondering why the Hales wanted him? Why the fuck did Derek come with them? Yeah, he was a Hale, but not a grown Hale. Then again, he was next in line for being the captain of the Wolves —guess his opinion was somewhat relevant.

Stiles had seen Derek at the game last night and now that he thought about it, he remembers seeing Peter, remembers seeing a woman next to Derek. Although, he was too busy trying to seduce Derek to pay attention to anyone else and that had been a dumb thing to do because if he had actually seen who was there, seeing Derek’s mom and coach, then he should have been able to put things together. They had gone to the game to check Stiles out, see if they liked what they saw, and decided whether or not to trade him in.

Which is as Stiles had suspected, Derek had been there to see him last night. He had denied it and Stiles knew it was a lie, but he had thought that the reason he was there to see Stiles was because he was interested in him, not in transferring him to the Wolves.

What a fucker.

He first criticized Stiles to no end. Trashed him, really. And now, now he wanted to transfer him to his school because it would improve the Wolves’ chances of winning next season. Ha ha ha. Hell no. Stiles was not about to hand that win over. Specially not after Derek had made it seen like he was a clean player, determined to win on the team’s merit.

The asshole was a hypocrite.

Stiles had decided that he was going to improve his game so that when it came time to play against the Wolves, he would be able to show them—show Derek—what he really could do. What the team could really do.

He was still set on doing that.

He reached for the pizza box, grabbed a slice and a napkin and handed it to Lydia who bit into it. As if that had been the what they were waiting on, Erica followed suit, then Scott, and Allison. No one said anything about the Hales knowing Stiles didn’t want to talk about it.

Everyone paid attention to the game, there was no more making out, no more reading, no more being on the phone. They all sat there, rooting for Real Madrid, making comments on how the team was not on point today, about how Barcelona seemed to rely solely on Messi scoring, on how Neymar kept diving, pretending to be injured, and then whining, about how Ramos could use a one on one lesson with Scott.

They wouldn’t talk about it

They would ignore the transfer.

Because it wouldn’t happen.

Because Stiles wouldn’t agree to it.

Because Stiles didn’t want it.

Real Madrid pulled their shit together, but they still lost 3-0.

Stiles now had zero dollars to his name, but Lydia’s hand in his made the loss seem like nothing. Scott commenting on how close they came to winning made him smile. Allison planning a car wash to raise more money, enough for even his new cleats, made him feel cared for. And Erica offering to do a cupcake sale—despite her sucking at baking, sucking at anything to do with her and a kitchen—made him feel secure.

This was his crew, his family, he wasn’t going to change it.

He wasn’t going to transfer.

He wasn’t going to hand the Wolves another win.

He wasn’t going to play with Derek.

He was going to play against Derek.

And win.


	4. March 18, 2016

 

Hands down, I'm too proud for love  
But with eyes shut, it's you I'm thinking of  
But how we move from A to B  
It can't be up to me cause you don't know  
Eye to eye, thigh to thigh, I let go 

I think I'm a little bit, little bit  
A little bit in love with you  
But only if you're a little bit, little bit  
Little bit in love with me

_A Little Bit ~ Lykke Li_

 

  

Derek lay on his bed.

He was thinking about one thing and one thing only: Stiles' refusal to join the Wolves.

Derek wanted to think about how it was a good thing. How, initially, he hadn’t wanted to play with Stiles. He wanted to play against him, so it had been a good thing that he rejected the offer to transfer out of Beacon Hills High School.

But, Derek couldn’t help but feel, hm, he felt—it was weird and he shouldn’t feel this way, he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it damn it—if he had to pinpoint the feeling, he’d use hurt. There he said it.

He felt hurt.

Stiles had refused his mother’s offer, last night. His mother had gone to Stiles’ home on her own. No Derek, no Peter. Just her and her wit. And she had failed. Not that Derek had expected her to succeed. Stiles didn’t seem to want to go the Wolves. Any other kid would’ve been _dying_ to transfer from their ratty public school to the Hales’ Academy. It was fact.

But not Stiles.

No.

His mother said she told him he wouldn’t even consider it because:

1\. He didn’t like the cliche that was the Den.  
2\. He didn’t want to stare at Peter’s chest hair more than he needed to.  
3\. He didn’t want to wear the God awful red and black jerseys.  
4\. He didn’t want to dumb down his game for the Wolves.

He would consider it under one condition:

If he was made captain of the team.

“I, of course, said no,” his mother had said. “I told him you are already in line for captain of the team for your senior year.”

Derek had been promised captain for his senior year. He knew he deserved it, he knew he could be good at it, but in the eyes of the other players, of the rest of other people, he hadn’t done anything to earn captain. He got that.

He had played in New York from fifth grade up to this year. No one knew what he had done, what he was capable of. No one knew about his come up, about his game; and here, no one cared. All they cared about was the fact that he was a Hale, and that was why he’d be captain. No other reason.

“What if we put it up for a vote?” had said Peter. “Let the Pack decide who gets to be their Alpha.”

Derek felt slightly betrayed by his uncle.

He was supposed to be on his side, the dick.

“We will not hold a democracy on this issue, Peter, the answer is no,” his mother had said.

“Let’s say that we do,” had said Laura. “The team will pick Stiles. They will pick him because they know who he is, half of the team grew up attending the same school as him until they were transferred out. Half of that half is friends with him or are friends of his friends and at the very minimum they all know him well enough to be able to hold a conversation with him, the other half wants to be friends with him because he’s that popular. The other half of the team might hate Stiles, but they’ve played for the Wolves longer than Derek and they aren’t happy about the fact that Derek just joined the team in January and is going to make captain in August. They feel disrespected.”

Derek was flaberstabed.

It was one thing for him to know he’d lose. It was another thing for his sister to know he’d lose.

“Which is why,” his mother had said. “We’re not putting it up for a vote.”

Again, even his mother knew.

“They feel Derek is riding in the Hale name cottontails,” said Peter. “Which is expected. Which is somewhat true considering that Derek was great in New York, but he has barely proven that he’s great here. Yes, I know it’s due to his injury, but Derek needs to prove to them that he’s not just a Hale. Because even if let’s say—worst case scenario—we don’t get Stiles to join the team, the Wolves will still not follow Derek.”

Derek felt that too.

“Well, Peter, the Spring Pack Camp will help,” had said his mom. “Derek will show the team what he’s really about and earn their trust, or their respect at the very minimum. He will prove to them that he’s more than capable and worthy of being the Wolves’ Alpha.”

Derek wasn’t so sure it’d work out.

He knew that in order for him to be able to lead the team, the team needed to trust him to some extent, which they did not, at all. And he needed to earn their trust, but now, with his family being so knowing of the situation, he felt the pressure to actually do something about it when he was just planning on being all: _I am the Alpha now_ , and expected the team to follow if they wanted to play, fuck earning their trust. They didn’t have to trust him if they didn’t want to, but they sure as hell would act civil if they wanted to play, if not, he’d bench them. Simple.

But now, thanks to Stiles bring that up, he knew they would not get away with doing that. He was going to actually have to put effort into getting the Wolves to trust him enough to be allowed to keep his position.

Well, fuck.

Derek sighed and pulled his pillow over his face.

He needed to sleep it off. Sleep off the hurt, the disappointment, and get past it. He needed to start planning ways to bond with his team, earn their trust. But, he really, really, hated doing all that shit.

Derek closed his eyes and went to sleep.

~*~

Derek did no know how he had ended here.

One minute, he was asleep in his bed, and the next, he was being ushered out of the house by Cora and Malia, and into the Camaro.

Cora was going on and on about how much cash she had, and how she hoped it’d be enough.

Malia kept going on and on about how she hoped they had ATM, their school did, so the other school should too.

Derek kept wanting to know what the hell was going on, but they didn’t explain. They just kept telling him where to go, to do a left on the next light, go straight until rounding the Sheriff’s Station, and then going straight for the next four lights, then taking a sharp right, and then another right onto the Beacon Hills High School’s parking lot, next to the other cars.

And what the hell?

“Cora,” he said as he parked. “What the hell are we doing here?”

But Malia replied.

“Auction, Der,” she said, flashing him with the most excited smile he had ever seen.

And what?

They jumped out of the car, and Derek followed behind them, and the rest of teens moving fast into what seemed to be the school’s gym.

“Don’t call me Der,” he said. “What kind of auction?”

“Sorry,” Malia said as she hooked her arm with Cora’s. “Date auction.”

Derek scrunched his eyebrows.

“What’s a date auction?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” replied Cora, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward. “Now, hurry up, it’s just about to start.”

“Wait, Cora,” he said, but she didn’t respond.

Of course she didn’t.

Derek didn’t know why his mother had told them that if Derek went, they could go, too. He hated when she did that because that meant that they made sure to get him to go wherever they wanted to go without so much as asking if he wanted to go. They just simply ushered him out.

There was a line outside the gym where a couple of hand fulls of teens stood going back and forth with each other, all the while counting cash. And Derek wanted to know what kind of school held a date auction? And what did that entail? And what was the money for?

The line moved fairly quickly, the crowd talked over each other, saying things like:

_I’m so excited!_

_Wonder how much Stiles will sale for?_

_What about Lydia?_

_Must be tough seeing your boyfriend/girlfriend being auctioned off, no?_

_That’s the kind of relationship they have, anyway._

_Yeah, they should be used to it._

_At least this way, they’ll make some money off it._

_I wonder if I have enough cash?_

Once they were at the front of the line, the boy at the front said, “Welcome, your school ID please.”

Derek pulled out his wallet, he always carried his ID, so there was that. Cora and Malia followed suit.

“Thank you,” said the boy. “Head inside.”

“Hey,” said Malia. “Can you tell me where I can find an ATM?”

The boy looked at Malia as if she had grown an extra head. “At the bank down town?”

Malia’s smile fell.

“What?” she asked. “You don’t have an ATM at the school? Are you sure?”

The boy shook his head no, and Malia was suddenly very sad.

“Oh no, Cora, what am I going to do now?” she asked.

Cora looked at her sympathetically, and Derek could not careless.

They made their way into the gym, which was packed. There were teenagers everywhere, surrounding a stage at the head of the gym. The stage wasn’t decorated, but there were lights and big speakers surrounding it, and Derek was intrigued.

He looked around, recognized a couple of students from school, and several more from the Wolves, including Boyd, Isaac, Aiden and Ethan. They moved to his side once they saw him, greeted each other, and stood there, waiting for the auction to start.

Cora and Malia couldn’t keep their mouth shut and kept going on and on about how excited they were.

After a couple of minutes, Coach Finstock took the stage, mic in hand.

“Alright,” he spoke into the mic, and there was plenty of screeching from the speakers, students covered their ears and cursed in protest. “Okay, okay, shut up, Greenberg, come fix this now. Greenberg, fix this darned thing!”

A boy jumped onto the stage, tripped over nothing, picked himself up and jumped behind the stage to fix the audio.

“Okay, testing 1, 2, 3, testing 1, 2, 3,” said Finstock and after the sound went on smoothly, he continued to speak. “Welcome to Beacon Hills High School’s first Date Auction,” the students screamed and cheered, Finstock let them have a minute, and then continued to speak, “Okay, yes it’s exciting, let’s—” more screaming, Finstock stopped and let the students scream, “let’s set some—” more cheering and Finstock lost it, “Hey! Shut up already, the faster you shut it, the faster we can move with this darn thing!” he said loudly into the microphone.

The students all settled down, and remained silent. And then he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said. “Okay, first off, you were asked for your student ID at the entrance to insure that only students get to participate in this auction. This is a date auction for teens, we don’t want no pervs or pedos in here. Second off, we will only accept cash, right here, right now. So, don’t be a smart ass. If you call out $300, be prepared to pay $300 right now. If you don’t have it, then you lose and we re-auction. Don’t do this. It will waste my time and I have things to do.

“Third of, the date auction consists of: a maximum five hour date, tomorrow. Your date will pick you up, take you out, unless you take ‘em —you pay for the date—no physical favors of any kind, I mean it, no funny business! But, because the cheerleaders insisted, and the soccer team did too, the date will end with a kiss. Fourth of, there are no refunds or exchanges or take backs. You get what you get and you do not get upset. And if you do get upset, no one will care so keep it to yourself. Is that clear?”

The students cheered in response.

“Okay, then,” he said. “We will start this auction. I will call out a member from the cheerleading squad or the soccer team, I will read their introduction, a song will play as they show you what they have to offer, and then when I say ‘we’re starting the bid at $20’ then you can start shouting off your bid. As I said before, YOU MUST HAVE THE MONEY AT THE TIME YOU SAY THE AMOUNT OR YOU WILL BE OUT OF THE AUCTION FOR GOOD.”

With that, Finstock moved to the podium off to the left of the stage. He screamed at Greenberg, and then after a couple of screams, Shakira’s She Wolf started playing, and Erica, wearing a black leather skirt, white undershirt that clang to her chest, a black leather jacket, and leopard printed high heels stepped out from behind the red curtains.

“Erica,” begin Finstock as she walked down the stage, wearing a dangerous smile. “Is a junior, an asset to the cheerleading squad, co-captain of the volley ball team, member of the reading club —what? that’s a lie— she enjoys intimidating —really Erica?— I’m not gonna read that. Just know that if your game weak, you do not need to be bidding on her because she will shred you to bits. This is one she wolf you do not want to upset!”

Erica chuckled and winked at the crowd. They went wild. Clearly, intimidation worked wonders with people.

“Alright,” he said. “We’ll start the bid at $20. Do I hear a $25?”

Someone shouted $35.

And then it got wild.

$55

$80

$100

$115

$135

$150

$160

“Do I hear $165?” asked Finstock. “Going once. Going tw—”

“$250!” screamed Boyd next to Derek.

Derek turned to look at him, Boyd didn’t even turn to look at him, he just stared forward, keeping his eyes on Erica, who was smirking at him in return.

“$250?” asked Finstock. “You sure?”

“$250!” shouted Boyd, determined.

“Okay, your funeral,” said Finstock. “$250. Going once. Going twice. Sold for $250. Come and pay up, I will give you Erica’s contact information, and you can set up your date.”

“Yes!” shouted Cora, with a big grin. “Go, Boyd!”

Boyd ducked his head, hiding a smile, before moving to the stage.

“Okay,” Finstock moved on as the Arctic Monkey’s Do I Wanna Know? started playing. “Next up, Scott McCall from the soccer team,” he continued and Scott McCall —Stiles’ best friend and step-brother per Malia— strutted out from behind the curtains, wearing a white t-shirt, a pair of faded blue skinny jeans, and a black cap. “He is co-captain of the lacrosse team, and actually pretty good at it, he is the backbone of the soccer team, full time Stilinski’s best friend, future Mr. Argent, and part-time vet assistant.”

Scott strutted the down the stage earning an earful of screams from the girls and boys.

“We’ll start that bid at $20.”

The crowd lost its mind.

$100

$110

$130

$145

$170

$190

$210

$235

$250

$278.

“$278!?” exclaimed Finstock. “For McCall? Are you sure he’s worth it? Okay, if you say so. $278. Going once. Going twice. Sold!”

Isaac moved to the front of the stage in a heartbeat.

Derek had not even seen when he moved away from him, let alone recognize his voice when he placed his bid. It had been so confident, so determined, so unlike him.

It was unnerving.

Derek hadn’t even known that Isaac liked boys.

“Yes, yes, come claim your prize!” shouted Finstock.

Scott got off the stage and Isaac almost crushed him in his arms. Derek couldn’t help but smile.

“Okay,” said coach. “Up next, Greenberg why’s the song not playing? Hurry up and fix it!”

After a minute, Rihanna’s Only Girl, started playing, and out came Allison, Scott’s girlfriend per Cora, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, a black sleeveless shirt, high black boots, and hair curly dark haired bounced of her shoulders.

“Alison Argent,” he said. “Co-captain of the cheerleading squad, co-captain of the volleyball team, future Mrs. McCall, enjoys hunting, is a pro archer —are you serious?— is heir to the Argent Weapons Empire. She’s worth more than you’ll ever be. We’ll start the bid at $20.”

The crowd was perhaps louder than with Scott.

$50

$110

$150

$165.35

$180

$191

$208.32

$241

$268

$305

“$305?” asked Finstock. “Going once. Going twice. Sold!”

Aiden, who was in Derek’s advanced chemistry class sprinted to the front of the stage, and smiled fondly at Alison.

Several other teens went after.

Jackson sold for $191.36.

Kira sold for $245.

Danny sold for $285.

Liam sold for $208.

Theo sold for $197.

“Alright,” said Finstock. “We have the last two.”

Beyonce’s Naughty Girl started playing, and out came Stiles’ on-and-off girlfriend, Lydia, from behind the curtains. As soon as she did, screams and roars were heard from almost everyone, including his sister, Cora.

“Lydia,” begin Finstock. “Co-captain of the cheerleading team, vice president of the student body, president and founder of the Advanced Robotics Team, President of the Literature Club, captain of the tennis club, founder of the—how many clubs are you president of? I’m skipping those— blah blah blah, ah, here we go. Early admittance to MIT, Stanford, Berkley, Harvard, Yale, and many more. Above all, girlfriend to Stiles Stilinski since ninth grade. Woo~ that’s long. We’ll start the bidding at $20.”

Nothing compared to the screams she got.

Her hype was unavailable.

$110.

$189.

$198.

$208.

$240.

$289.

$308.

$354.

$396.

$404.57.

$417.

$432.

“Woo~,” whistled Finstock. “$432. Lydia is racking it up! Look at her. Okay, $432, going once. Going tw—”

“$565!” screamed his sister.

Derek looked over to her, shocked beyond belief. Where could his sister have gotten that money from? And more importantly, was she really going to pay $565 for a date?

“Cora,” he begin, but Finstock moved on.

“$565! Going once. Going twice. Sold! Sold! Sold!”

Cora jumped up and down next to Derek, Malia hugged her and they reached for Derek, including him in the hug. Derek let them, but he wasn’t so sure it was the best idea. He felt his sister was overpaying for the date —extremely so—considering she didn’t work, she couldn’t work and she didn’t do extra chores around the house to earn money. He wondered about where the money was coming from considering she received a monthly allowance of $200 and she spent it in one day, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to reign down on her. She just seemed so extremely happy.

Cora went to the front, and met up with Lydia where she smiled so big. Derek, again, couldn’t help but smile. Who knew these things were so joy inducing?

“Okay,” said Finstock. “The last one.”

Pitbull’s Go Girl started playing, and out came Stiles, wearing a pair of khaki pants, a navy long sleeve shirt, a pair of Adidas, and his hair was slightly disheveled. He looked so good. God, why had Derek suddenly just said he looked so good?

“Stiles,” said Finstock. “Future Mr. Martin, the actual backbone of the soccer team, member of the tennis club, baseball team, lacrosse team, and even basket ball team, along with other clubs that Lydia is the president of, but those aren’t even worth mentioning because no one really cares. Let me just skip to the good stuff, let’s see…”

Derek actually wanted to hear abut the clubs that Stiles was a member of because up until that point, he didn’t think much about what Stiles did, what he was like. Clearly, despite his off putting attitude, he was actually a decent student. Which… that seemed a bit off? But, then again, if Lydia was the president of those other clubs, then of course Stiles was guaranteed a spot in them, right?

“Oh, there’s just nothing interesting on this so I will have to improvise. Stiles hasn’t been admitted to any colleges yet, but it’s still early —he has another year to go—it’ll happen, maybe. I mean, I have faith in him. It might not be Hardvard, but when you’re Stilinski and your soccer game is on A+, anything can happen. Also, this isn’t even on his intro, but Stilinski once wrote an essay about male circumcision and got an A+ for my class. See, he’s not only the jockiest jock to ever jock, but has the ability to project his interest to the max. Go him. But, no one cares. Let’s start the bid at $20.”

At first, the crowd was in a mixture of laughter and screams. Stiles was a blushed mess on the stage, rubbing his long, thin, entrancing fingers all along his jaw, back to his neck, up his hair. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there. He looked embarrassed —and for the record, Derek did not find it endearing in the least bit—in front of the crowd, shaking his head.

To his right, next to the stage, Scott screamed, “Stilinski for president!”

Alison screamed, “Slay!”

Erica hollered, “Yaas, bitch, yaas!”

Lydia, put both her hands in front of her mouth, in a circle, and screamed, “Marry me!”

It was as if they were encouraging him, trying to goad him on, and Derek didn’t know why that was needed. The crowd was going wild, and Stiles was extremely popular, always seemed confident, overly so, and Derek didn’t believe he needed any confirmation of him being the most outstanding person to ever set foot on this planet. Not that that was Derek’s opinion, but that’s how Malia described him.

Derek, could agree that Stiles was outstanding, and extremely talented.

So did most of the school.

But, apparently, Stiles wasn’t so convinced.

And that for some reason, changed something in Derek. He didn’t know what, but the fact that Stiles had doubts of his own persona that he had created for himself, changed how Derek perceived him. It wasn’t a bad change. It was more of a realization that there was more to Stiles than meets the eyes. For reasons unknown to Derek, he wanted to know everything Stiles absconded from the rest of the world.

As if his friends cheering him on made all the difference in the world, Stiles took a deep breath, licked his lips —God, it had been obscene, and the crowd had agreed— before arranging a confident smirk, turning him back to the embodiment of confidence.

If the crowd had been obnoxiously loud during Lydia’s introduction, the crowd was beyond loud. They were louder than loud. It was the next level of loud. And, people started shouting crazy amounts.

$124.

$198.76.

$209.31.

$268.

$301.

$345.

$389.

$398.

$415.

$436.61.

$455.

$489.

“$489,” said Finstock. “Come on, ya’ll can do better than that! No? Okay, let’s do the count down. Going onc—”

“$545!” screamed Malia.

And Derek could not believe she wanted pay that ridiculous amount for a date with Stiles. Then again, he had more than that in his wallet. His mother had given him money to deposit for his car payment and for his three upcoming physical therapy sessions.

“$545!” screamed Finstock. “That’s a big amount! Okay, let’s do this. Going once. Going—”

Derek did not know what had possessed him to do this.

He didn’t know why he’d done it.

The only plausible reason was that he did not want his little cousin —whom he did not know he cared so much about—to be left alone with Stiles, the biggest player—according to Cora— known to man.

“$650!” he screamed, earning a shocked gasped from his cousin, whom he was trying to protect from Stiles, by the way.

“$650!,” screamed Finstock. “That’s on another level! Okay, let’s go. Going once—”

“Derek, please don’t,” said Malia, and even though Derek thought about stopping it, taking it back because he didn’t want to spend all that money on a date, he didn’t know how.

His bid was out there.

He couldn’t take it back.

Finstock had been clear.

Rules were rules.

“Derek!” his cousin begged.

And he thought about the fact that maybe he had been slightly over the top. On one hand, he wanted time alone with Stiles and this seemed like a good way to get it. He wanted to talk to him about the whole party thing—where he punched him— and transferring, not to convince him to, but to understand his refusal to. And on the other, and most importantly, he did not want his cousin —whom he cared about—getting screwed by Stiles. Had he mentioned this before? Because that was a big part of the whole thing, okay?

Stiles turned to him, and stared.

Hard.

If Derek focused hard enough, he could still see a slight grey and yellow spot at the high point of his left cheekbone. He was still slightly bruised. Derek had hit him that hard. Twice. What the fuck had he been thinking?

“$700!” screamed Lydia from the front of the gym, Cora standing right next to her. And what the fuck?

Finstock seemed to agree, “Lydia, you’re spoken for!”

She said something inaudible and then Finstock nodded as he said, “uh-huh, yeah, oh, I see, okay.”

“Seems future Mrs. Stilinski believes she can have two dates in one day with two different people —who am I to judge?— she’s not only beauty folks, she’s got the brains. Plus, she claims this isn’t her trying to schedule a threesome with Stiles and her current date. I believe her. Do you?”

Half the crowd screamed ‘yes’ and the other ‘no.’

Derek didn’t scream.

“Okay,” Finstock moved on. “Since you seem to agree, $700. Goi—”

“$750!” screamed Derek, why couldn’t he just let it go?

He needed to let it go.

“$800!” screamed Lydia, staring directly at Derek, her arms crossed in front of her chest, cocking her perfect left eyebrow.

It was either that she did not want to share Stiles, or she was really planning a threesome. Which, she’d end up sharing anyway. Wasn’t that exactly what people kept saying their relationship was about anyway? And to top this off, he did not want his little sister being part of a threesome.

Nope.

That wasn’t happening.

“$800?” screamed Finstock. “Well, isn’t our little Stiles wanted? Okay! $800!”

Okay, fine.

He had tried.

Against his better judgment, he had tried.

He almost wasted half the cash in his wallet.

“Going once!” Finstock said.

He was not going to bet any more fucking money.

“Going—”

Fuck it.

“$1,000!” he screamed.

The crowd gasped.

Lydia smirked.

Malia had tears running down her face.

Stiles looked at Derek as if he’d just grown a second head.

Derek reevaluated his choices in silence.

“$1,000!” screamed Finstock. “Going once—”

No one said anything.

“—going twice—”

He’d won.

“—sold!”

Derek couldn’t believe he had just bid $1,000 on Stiles.

Holy shit.

“Come claim your price!”

His mother was going to kill him.

He looked over to his cousin, she looked petrified. Derek felt slightly guilty. But that disappeared the moment he looked up on the stage, and saw Stiles sporting a bashful expression, pink blush crept across his cheeks, the top of his ears, and down his neck.

God.

Again, he looked really innocent, really different from his confident self. Derek couldn’t help but want to date him. To take him on that date, that he paid good money for, he meant. That’s what he meant.

And he ignored Malia, because if he didn’t, then what else could he do? Nothing.

Stiles high-fived some of the people from the crowd that kept screaming his name, and talked to others before he made it to the back of the stage, and Derek made it there before he even knew his legs had moved. It was automatic. His legs wanted this too damn much.

Once there, Cora gave him a once over as if asking, ‘Is that really you Derek?’

And what?

Yes, it was really him. He was really the idiot that had bid $1,000 to get five hours alone with Stiles. He needed to figure out a way to explain this expense. He got a monthly allowance of $500, and he was free to do with it as he pleased because his mom paid for all other expenses. Most of that money was in his savings account, but that did not mean he was okay with touching it.

He was an idiot, he knew.

“Hale,” said Stiles, pulling up the sleeves of his shirt, all traces of that innocence, bashfulness, completely gone and replaced with an unruffled Stiles. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Derek nodded. And chocked back on a ‘Yeah, you too.’ Stiles went to this school. Of course he’d be here.

Stiles gave him a little smile, running his caramel eyes over Derek, making him feel exposed, and wishing he looked good, presentable. He didn’t know why that was important to him right now, considering he shouldn’t care because why should he?

Over the mic, Finstock said, “Okay, folks, that concludes our first Date Auction. Thank you for coming by and spending your money with us. Reminder to please exit the gym in a single filed line, SINGLE FILED LINE! DON’T ACT LIKE ANIMALS! Also, and before you all leave, we’re having a car wash. We were going to hold it tomorrow, but since you know, some of you —not all of you because some of you were too broke— have dates tomorrow, now we’re moving the wash until next week. Don’t forget to bring your dirty car and your cash. Drive safely, or don’t, but if you don’t, you won’t get to see the cheerleading squad and soccer team wet and soapy.”

Derek could not believe he had just said that. How could teacher even say that?

He also could not believe his car was super dirty and it was in a desperate need for a wash.

Damn, how the universe aligned.

“Give me your phone,” said Stiles and Derek handed it over, and Stiles gave it to Lydia. “I am free all day tomorrow—”

“Not in the morning,” interrupted Lydia, correcting Stiles.

Stiles nodded.

“Oh, right, uh, I’m free after one. You already know where I live, so text me when you’re on your way to pick me up,” he said pulling out his phone and showing Derek that he had a text from him, a test text that Lydia had written. It read, _I’m a fool for bidding $1,000 on you. The things I do to win_.

Derek huffed.

“Can I have my phone back now?” he asked, stretching out his hand.

Lydia placed his phone on his hand too forcefully.

“Okay, Cora,” she said fixing her eyes on his sister. “As agreed, since you don’t have a license or a car, I will pick you up.”

Cora smiled and nodded and Lydia smiled back.

“And I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, big guy,” Stiles said to Derek, and then to Lydia. “Come on, let’s go. I’m starving.”

“Aren’t you just always,” said Lydia tucking herself under Stiles’ arm, leaning her face back, Stiles lay a soft kiss on her temple, and then they walked towards the left side of the gym, where Alison, Scott, Erica, Danny, and the others waited on them.

“Can’t believe you bid $1,000, on his skinny ass,” Cora said once Stiles and Lydia were on the opposite side of the gym. And Derek knew it was ridiculous, people needed to stop remind him. “Can’t believe you stole Malia’s date, and to top that off, you played right into Lydia’s scheme. Brother o’ mine, you is dumb.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“It’s not like that,” he said.

Cora huffed, “Yeah, right.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

They made it to where Malia was talking to Boyd and Isaac, the only two people he had managed to become sort of friends with since being back at Beacon Hills. They smirked at him as soon as he saw them, Malia stared at him hard and mad. Derek honestly couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Isaac, Boyd,” he said nodding.

“$1,000,” said Boyd, with an incredulous smile.

The fucker.

“Shit Hale,” said Isaac. “I thought I had it bad.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“It’s not like that,” he said to them.

“I hope it’s not,” said Isaac, turning to look where Stiles’ group stood. “Lydia and Stiles are basically set in stone. Trust, you don’t want any of that on your hands.”

Derek couldn’t help but feel like Isaac was right.

“If it is like that, though” said Boyd. “Then go for it. They’re not married, there’s talks about how they will eventually, but as it stands, they’re not. Go on, get yours.”

Derek couldn’t help but feel like Boyd was also right.

“But,” he said. “It’s not like that.”

They laughed, Malia didn’t even look at him, and Cora shook her head as if she knew something he didn’t. And she knew nothing because it wasn’t like that.

Derek risked one glance at where Stiles stood with his group. He had Lydia in front of him, wrapped in his arms, and his eyes abruptly glanced up, landing on Derek. They held their gaze for half a second before, as if Stiles knew better —as if he had taught himself better— he dropped his gaze and went back to focusing on Lydia.

It hadn’t been a ‘Can’t look at you or I’ll get my balls cut off’ gesture. It was more of a ‘I have Lydia in my arms right now and nothing else is relevant’ gesture.

Derek felt very strongly about respecting that, particularly since you know, it wasn’t like that. He dropped his gaze and followed his sister and the others out of the gym.

The drive home had been extremely awkward.

Cora was too excited.

Malia didn’t say a word, and, again, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had a date with Stiles tomorrow.

Regardless of whether it was like that or not —and as it stood, right now, it was not like that— he was going on a very expensive date tomorrow and he couldn’t, by the force of God, stop thinking about it.

He wondered where he’d take him.

What Stiles would wear.

What Stiles would say.

But above all, and even if it wasn’t like that, he wondered about that kiss.

He couldn’t stop himself from wanting to know how Stiles’ lips would feel against his, what he would taste like.

What he would feel like.

Shit, maybe it was a little like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids!
> 
> guess what? i've picked the song stiles and derek will have sex to :)  
> guess what else? it's not gonna happen until like A LOT OF MORE CHAPTERS :(  
> makes me a lil :/ but oh well, c'est la vie 
> 
> <333


	5. March 19, 2016 - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't believe in valentine's day because i personally think it's a fake holiday but i did want to upload something in for today for those of you who celebrate valentine's day even tho it's not so valentine day-ish but i tried anyway :) 
> 
> also, thank you for reading this mess and ilysm <3

  
“I can give it all on the first date  
I don't have to exist outside this place  
And dear know that I can change

But if stars, shouldn't shine  
By the very first time  
Then dear it's fine, so fine by me  
'Cos we can give it time  
So much time  
With me”

_The XX - Stars_

  
Derek pulled up in front of Stiles’ house, but didn’t get out of his car.

The last time he had been here, he was with his mom and Peter. He hadn’t had time to prepare himself before seeing Stiles. His mother had deliberately gone inside to try and snatch Stiles away from his current school. And failed.

Plus, he had been greeted with a, ‘ _you picked a bad time, Hale_.’

Derek hoped for a better greeting this time.

He gripped the stirring wheel, and took a deep breath. And told himself that:

_He could do this._

_This was no big deal._

_Not to think too much about it._

_It wasn’t an actual date._

_Everything would be fine._

Call him an optimist, but he almost believed it.

After a minute —okay, after a _couple_ of minutes— he cut off the engine and hopped out of the Camaro, closed the door behind him and started the big debate: should he send an ‘ _I’m here_ ’ text or go knock on the door. On one hand, if he sent a text, it would be concise and it would be less formal, less date-ish. On the other hand, if he walked up the front steps and knocked on the door, it would make him look gentlemanly, and it would be more of a date.

He was at a lose.

As he continued to debate, and settled for knocking the door —because you know what? it was supposed to be a date after all— the front door opened and out came Lydia Martin in a navy blue dress with pink flowers, tan ankle high heeled boots and a tan jacket, Stiles followed behind her—still wearing what seemed to be pajamas—firing hundreds of words at Lydia’s back.

Derek was confused as to why Lydia was coming out from Stiles’ house looking and he didn’t know if he had showed too early. So, he checked his phone and yeah, he told Stiles he’d pick him up at 2, it was now 2:05. So clearly, he was not too early.

Lydia spotted him first, stopped on her track and ran a perfectly manicured hand through her hair before actually acknowledging him.

“Hale,” she said.

“Martin,” he responded.

“—I’m not trying to say what you can or can’t do, I would _never_ say anything like that, you know that, it’s just that—Derek!” said Stiles, with a small smile. “You’re here!”

Derek nodded.

“Yeah, I was just about to text you,” he lied.

“Oh,” said Stiles. “Yeah, I’ll be ready shortly, let me just…” he trailed off as Lydia walked to the driver’s side of the Jeep.

Stiles followed behind her, took both of her hands in his, kissed them, and she sighed before giving him a small, private smile. Derek looked down to his boots because suddenly, they were the most interesting thing in the world. He looked up at the sound of one of the Jeep’s doors being opened.

“Okay,” said Stiles as he held the door for Lydia. “Drive safely, please call me if anything happens—with the car, I mean. I know we talked about, uh, that. So, yeah, have fun!”

And Derek wondered what they had talked about, what had been discussed, and what they had agreed on, because clearly, judging by Stiles’ words, an agreement of sorts had been reached.

Lydia hopped in the car, revved it, and Stiles closed the door. She rolled down the window, Stiles leaned in, and she kissed his cheek. And she was off, pulling out of the driveway, but not before saying goodbye to Derek because apparently, it was a must.

“A word of advice, Hale,” she said, her voice clear and poised. “Don’t pressure him. He makes better decisions with a clear head, when he’s not being pulled one way or the other, when he’s not being ambushed. That kind of thing only makes him confused, and he’ll start over analyzing everything you say to him. Do what you must, but take into account that he isn’t how he appears to be.”

Derek was caught off guard.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that _this_ isn’t a big deal to him,” she said with hard look. “And don’t confuse him unless you’re ready to handle the aftermath of your actions.”

And she was off.

Derek didn’t even get a chance to respond. But, clearly, she knew the real reason he had bid all that money on Stiles last night. Because he needed to talk to him —to get him alone and reason with him, understand him, and even perhaps, pursued him. She understood it so perfectly, and she understood Stile’s predicament to the T.

Derek was amazed.

She seemed to know Stiles’ brain backwards and forwards. But then again, when you dated the same person for as long as they’ve dated, wouldn’t you be bound to have an understanding of that person on a whole different level from anyone else?

And apparently, she understood Derek, too.

Without so much as crossing more than a couple of words with him, she understood him. Laura, who Derek thought knew him more than anyone else, didn’t get why he’d spent $1,000 on Stiles. She thought it was a wasted effort because she believed that Derek wouldn’t be able to reach Stiles. She believed that anything Derek said to him would just upset him even more, push him over the edge, and Derek would end up punching him.

Again.

Whereas, Lydia told him how to approach the situation, how to talk to him, how to reach him, how to reason with him, but above all, asked him to understand Stiles, to take him, his feelings, into account.

_Must be nice_ , thought Derek. _Must be nice to have someone know you that well._

After a couple of minutes, Stiles came bouncing out the door wearing a pair of faded gray skinny jeans, a white long sleeve Henley, a pair of black Convers, a black leather jacket, in one had, a red duffel bag tossed over his shoulder, a ridiculous looking face, and his hair—God, his hair.

It just wasn’t fair.

He was there to talk to him, but all he wanted to do was pin him against the hood of the Camaro, run his hands through his hair, bury his lips against his neck, and take him apart, piece by piece, until he there wasn’t anything left.

Which, what the fucking fuck?

It wasn’t like that.

He’s brain needed to get the memo.

Stiles smiled at him as he closed the distance between them.

Derek’s gaze moved from his feet, to his lap, up his torso, towards his chest, to his face, and settled on his sunset eyes. Derek could feel himself take a deep breath of air, he knew his lips were parted, unable to close his mouth.

“Don’t be so shocked,” said Stiles. “I _can_ clean up nicely, you know.”

“I do now,” replied Derek.

And what the fuck?

He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.

Stiles smiled, the slightest shade of pink covering his cheeks. And it was the cutest thing ever. Damn it. Derek was starting to find him slightly endearing. Shit.

He cleared his throat.

“What’s the bag for?” he asked.

Stiles tugged on the bag a little tighter.

“Brought a change of clothes,” he said.

And shit.

Did he think Derek would put out? On this fake date?

Stiles’ blush went from light pink to full on red in a heartbeat.

“Not like that, dude, not like that” he said, he’s voice a little squeaky. “I meant that I always have a change of clothes in the Jeep, but Lydia took it—and you’re driving today, so I’d have to bring it anyway—because, as you know, you should know anyway, I live and breathe soccer—not that you don’t in case you don’t know—and I often end up playing anywhere I go, and I figured that we might want to play, and then I’d get sweaty and dirty and—not that that’s an issue for me because I like that very, very, much, it’s kind of a kink of mine—wait a minute, why the fuck did I just say that? Just ignore it, okay?— Anyway. Lydia picked my outfit and that means I cannot let anything happen to it. Plus, dude, I can’t really play as well in skinny ass jeans, so I brought a change of soccer appropriate clothes, so that if you wanted to play, we could. So, yeah. That’s what the bag is for.”

And Derek nodded.

He always had a change or two of clean clothes in his trunk.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I have clean clothes in my car too.”

“Of course you would!” replied Stiles overly excited, as if to say, _‘see, it’s not that weird and so totally not what you thought it was first!’_

“I, uh,” Derek swallowed and turned towards the trunk. “I’ll open the trunk for you so you can toss in your bag. Come on.”

Stiles followed him, tossed his bag into the trunk without the slightest hint of grace, and then headed for the passenger seat. Derek followed suit, and got in the driver’s seat, revved up the engine, and connected his phone to the aux, fumbled with it for a while and shuffled his Spotify playlist.

Unfortunately, the first song to play was _The XX’s Stars_.

Derek blushed.

Stiles cleared his throat.

He would not change the song because then that would make it more awkward than it already was. So, instead, he decided he’d tell Stiles his plan for the next five hours, let the song play in the background and move on, move past this, pretty much just ignore it. He refused to be embarrassed by his taste in music damn it.

“So,” he said as he begin to drive towards the main road. “I was thinking, we could play ball for a while—it’s not ideal, but you and I will be more comfortable doing that—then we can go out for dinner, and call it a day. Is that okay?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, sure, let’s uh, do that.”

Derek drove in silence and Stiles stayed quiet, mostly. He made comments every now and then telling Derek about this or that. He fidgeted in the seat, pulled out his phone and scrolled through it as if to appease his nerves. Derek didn’t say anything about it because well, what could he say? He wished he could pull out his phone and scroll through it, but he was driving. And he was taught to never look at his phone while driving.

He’d rather focus on the road ahead, because he was a bit on edge, antsy. He didn’t know how the date would go, but more importantly, how Stiles would react to him driving to the Wolves’ stadium.

He hoped it wouldn’t be too much pressure for him, and he wasn’t trying to appeal to him about the team by taking him to that particular field, he just wanted to have a decent place to play, private enough for them to be able to burn bridges, bury the hatchet, or whatever.

He drove into the parking lot next to the stadium. And almost immediately, Stiles reacted.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes…” begin Derek, not sure what to say other than _shut up and get out of the car_ , but he chose not to say that.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Ugh,” he said. “Fine.”

He got out of the car and headed for the trunk.

Derek cut the engine, and ran to the back of the car.

The sooner they started this, the sooner he would walk out of this with a better understanding of Stiles. With a better grip on the situation —their situation.

He led Stiles into the Den, and into their locker room.

He had meant to open the guest locker room for him, but Stiles walked into the Wolves’ locker room as soon as it was unlocked and Derek stared behind him, dumb founded, not knowing what to do, what to say, to get him to change somewhere else.

“Hurry, Hale,” said Stiles as he set his bag down and stepped out of his shoes.

Derek took a deep breath before walking in.

Stiles tossed his jacket on the bench, pulled off his white Henley, exposing his slender torso, his hard abs, the dark hair that stretched from his belly button down and disappeared into his boxers, his firm chest and arms, all adorned by freckles and moles in random places, like stars on a clear night’s sky.

Derek couldn’t peel his eyes off him, off his skin.

He couldn’t stop the way his cock twitched in his pants.

He couldn’t stop the way his mouth salivated a little.

He couldn’t stop the way his hands, his fingers, itched to touch his pale skin.

He couldn’t help being so ridiculously smitten.

He couldn’t control his heartbeat.

And he knew, he was fucked.

So fucked.

Well, shit.

 

~*~

 

“And I can draw the line on the first date  
I'll let you cross it  
Let you take every line I've got  
When the time gets late

But if stars, shouldn't shine  
By the very first time  
Then dear it's fine, so fine by me  
'Cos we can give it time  
So much time  
With me

If you want me  
Let me know  
Where do you wanna go  
No need for talking  
I already know  
If you want me  
Why go”

The XX - Stars

Stiles managed to step out of his jeans gracefully, thank you Lord _t_.

He actually managed to change in record time. The less time he spent dicking around —ha ha, dicking around—the less time he had to spend thinking about Derek’s dick. It worked out fine for the most part, mostly because he couldn’t really see Derek. His locker was towards the back and well, Stiles started changing in the front when he should’ve waited.

He impatiently sat on the bench and waited for Derek to emerge, when he finally did, he looked good. He looked better than good, he looked unbelievably good. _Hot damn_ good. His long sleeve shirt fitted him perfectly, making all of him look toned and big, specially his fucking chest and arms. And holy shit, his fucking black shorts did very little to hide his bulge, and it was so incredibly inviting, so fucking beautiful, Stiles could only imagine what it actually looked like.

And honestly, Stiles deserved this, okay. He’d been nothing but good these past few days, he’d been behaving, mostly. He was a somewhat good person, and he was willing and deserving.

But.

All he could do, was lick his lips— _twice_ —before Derek actually said something.

“Come on,” he said heading for the door, a red and black ball tucked under his arm.

Stiles followed him, or rather, his ass because again, that ass speaks Stiles' language. It practically seduces Stiles with nothing but a little jiggle and fuck, Stiles wants to tap that bad, really, _really_ , badly.

But, alas, he knows that won’t happen.

At least not today.

Why won’t it happen today, you ask?

Well, because Derek is not feeling Stiles sexually. And that’s okay, for now just getting to figure Derek out is more than enough. And he didn’t bring any rubbers. He knew it wouldn’t happen, that’s why he didn’t even bother. If by the grace of God, no matter how unlikely that is, Derek actually wants him, then he’s screwed because he didn’t bring them.

Lydia had told him to pack them, but he refused on the grounds that it wasn’t happening. She had rolled her eyes and told him he’d get blue balls and guess what? She was probably right. She was mostly right, like all the time, but that’s beside the point. Derek doesn’t really want him that way, which is weird because Stiles had thought he did want him but now, after his attempts at flirting with him were shut down and then him being punched in the face, Stiles is starting to think the guy’s, um, straight? And if he manages to fuck him, they will have to say ‘no homo’ before and after.

And it’s happened to him before, he’s had to—no, wait, _he_ hasn’t had to because he is what he is and he’s not about to say ‘no homo’ because fuck you, he meant to go balls deep in you, and he’s not ashamed! And he’s not going to make it _seem_ like he was pretending it was vagina. If he had wanted vagina, he would’ve had vagina, so fuck that. But, a guy had said that to him once, just as Stiles slipped his dick out of the guy’s ass.

Yup, no homo there.

After a short minute, and after Derek having stopped to grab a couple of Gatorade’s from the fridge in the center of the Den —which was fully loaded, by the way, fucking rich people—they made it to the field, and Derek set the ball down.

“So, how do you want to do this? Are we keeping scores?” Derek had the audacity to ask.

And, obviously they would be.

“We obviously are, dude,” he replied. “It’s a fucking must.”

Derek shook his head.

“Alright, fine,” Derek said with a fucking sigh, the drama queen.

And Stiles wanted to make their little game interesting—overly so— because he wanted to win, just winning against Derek will do it for him really. He’d get bragging rights for the rest of his life. Like Derek could go pro tomorrow and Stiles will still be that kid that beat his ass to a pulp. Take that, future serious pro-soccer player, part-time USA National Team all star, and full time stud, Derek Hale.

He will enjoy bragging about beating him every single time.

Aside from that, Stiles thought about betting some money, but like, uh, after his lose against Jackson, well he’s just not that confident anymore, taking that L sucked major balls. It was all Real Madrid’s fault. Fuck them.

So, yeah, he’s broke. And Derek just spent one grand on him, and that on its own was just plain dumb. Stiles still couldn’t believe he had actually done that. And while he’s sure the Hales’ are just rolling in the dough, he didn’t want Derek spending any more money on him. Stiles’ just not that type of guy.

So. He’s got $30 bucks. Burger’s and fries on him, if he loses. Which, he’s already said he won’t. But even if he wins—which he will—he’ll volunteer to split the cost, at the very minimum.

“Loser pays for dinner,” called Stiles from behind Derek.

Derek set the ball on the middle of the field, looked at Stiles, eyebrows scrunched together in deep disapproval and said, “No, I’ve made plans for that and dinner’s taken care of. Chose something else.”

And Stiles felt a little tug at the pit of his stomach because Derek wants to feed him, he actually made plans to feed him, and Stiles couldn’t help but smile because if there is one thing Stiles loves it’s food. He’s favorite thing to do is eat. He’d chose eating over anything. Well, almost anything. If he had to pick between taking Derek out for some bomb ass pizza and riding Derek’s bomb ass dick into the sunset, he’d obviously, hands down, chose the latter.

But, the latter doesn’t even seem like a possibility, so yeah, he’d take the food and be hella happy about it.

“Okay,” he said looking down at his cleats to hide said smile. “Fine, for every goal, we get a question.”

Dereks scrunched his eyebrows not knowing what he was talking about.

So, Stiles being the nice person that he is, took the time to explain the game. And he’s just pulling this out of his ass, by the way. But hey, this is kind of ideal, he’ll get the goods on Derek, and Derek can’t refuse to answer with nothing but the truth. Stiles is one wicked fox.

“Dude, so,” he said. “For every goal I score, I get to ask you a question and you must answer with the truth —and I’ll obviously know if you’re lying, by the way—for every goal you score, you get to ask me a question and I must answer with the truth. I’m not too sure that you’ll know if I’m lying, but I solemnly promise you that I’ll say the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Zlatan—” he stopped to throw a playful wink at Derek because he’s fucking hilarious, okay, “—this way, we can get to know each other and get over this tension between us because if I can feel it, then I’m sure you can too. And honestly, dude, I’m okay with a sexual tension, but this, what we've got going on between us, is far from that. So, what do you say, you in?”

Derek looked at him as if he was being dumb, looked like he wanted to say as much because he moved his mouth as if to form words, but against his better judgment, he closed it and then just nodded. And Stiles obviously approved of his decision to keep quiet and agree.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “But just so we’re clear, you’re _not_ that interesting.”

Stiles chuckled because he knows he’s being lied to.

“Yet, I find you so irresistibly fascinating,” Stiles retorted with a quirk of his lip.

And Derek flushed right then and there. See, this is what Stiles means by interesting. Derek Hale, heir to a multi-million dollar empire, model material, in line for a career in pro-soccer, blushes at being called fascinating. Who would have known? Certainly, not Stiles.

Stiles moved to the center, held three fingers in front of Derek, and Derek stared at them utterly surprised, and Stiles chuckled.

“At the count of three, okay?” he said, fingers still in front of Derek.

Derek nodded before he spoke, “I count.”

Stiles rolled his eyes because honestly, he’s fucking unbelievable. “Fine.”

And with that, Derek counted them down.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Stiles rolled the ball over to his side, ducked Derek’s leg, and flew for the goal, Derek hot on his heels. He made to move right, but dived left and Derek went from right to left almost immediately, not anticipating Stiles’ move, but adjusting himself at once.

Stiles chuckled, before he scored because Derek didn’t even have a chance.

“Goal!” he sang, not too excited because it was just the beginning and he expected to be the first to score. As he already said, he is expecting to win. He ran for the ball, and clutched it under his arm before directing his words to Derek. “Do you really hate me?”

Derek stared at him, a little surprised, guess he didn’t think Stiles would ask that question. In his defense, Stiles didn’t actually _plan_ on asking that question. Not right of the bat, anyway. He was going to work his way to that question, but he had blurted it out. But you know? It was so typically him. That’s just how his brain worked sometimes. It wasn’t ideal, and it was far from conventional, but in the end, Stiles did want to know the answer to that questions. So, he held Derek’s pale green eyes and his breath.

“I,” begin Derek, but stopped to clear his throat, pulling his eyebrows together, again. “ _Never_ said I hated it you. What gave you that impression?”

Stiles scuffed.

“You mean, aside from you slamming me against the wall, accusing me of turning a game into what it is, a _game_ , and _demanding_ that I get my shit together? And then, _punching_ me in the face— _twice_ , might I add—after I _actually_ go and get my shit together? Oh, I don’t know dude, I just assumed.”

Derek shook his head.

“All of that, you earned. You’re a little shit, and you deserved those punches. But, I don’t _hate_ you, not really. I don’t even think I know you enough to hate you.”

And Stiles understood him because despite him Googling the shit out of Derek and finding all sorts of things about him, and his family, particularly, his older sister Laura—listen, he’s not proud of having done that, having seen that, twice—he still feels he doesn’t know anything about Derek. Like at all. Hence, this truth game.

When he Googled him, it was under desperate measures, he had one hand on his laptop, and the other clutching some frozen blue berries against the shiner Derek had given him. It took hours, but he needed to get some questions out of his damn system, out of his brain, or he wouldn’t be able to fucking concentrate on anything else. Not completely anyway, until he found out all there was to know about Derek Hale, his brain would go scattering from one thing—as usual, that wouldn’t be anything new—and then back to Derek.

“A little shit,” he said. “Sounds about right. Come on, let’s go.”

This time around, Stiles tossed the ball directly at Derek’s feet. This is how the game went. He had scored, he needed to give Derek the opportunity to do the same. And the only fair way to do this was by giving him a head start. Now, it was time for Stiles to steal the ball. Which he was good at, given the fact that he had trained Scott this way. And he had heard that before Derek injured his right foot, he was extremely good at it too.

Derek kicked the ball left, and Stiles followed, trying to steal the ball right off the bat because he had other questions, and there was no point in pretending he was going to play nice because he never did, because he didn’t know how to, because he never learned and because he refused to on the account that he didn’t want to.

He followed Derek’s movements, attempting to predict his next kick, and that made Derek kick faster up the field, towards Stiles’ goal. Stiles ran up, predicting that Derek would attempt to score and he did, so Stiles stoped it with his bare hands, and fell to the ground. And see, this is why he does not goalie. Being a goalie takes so much standing still, so much focus, so much effort, so many balls to the face —and don’t get him wrong, he _enjoys_ balls to the face, just not soccer balls—and lots of getting to know the ground.

Derek looked at him, a little shocked. Guess he thought he was going to score. Like wow, how optimistic. Stiles couldn’t help but smirk at him as he picked himself off the ground, threw the ball in the air, kicked it past midfield, and chased. Derek followed him though, but Stiles had the upper hand on this, he closed the distance and kicked the ball in the net, Derek followed it in, grunting.

“That makes 2-0,” yelled Stiles.

Derek retrieved the ball without so much as a word, and threw it at Stiles, a little too forceful. Clearly, someone was not liking the current score.

“You don’t want me to play with you,” Stiles said matter of factly because it is fact. “I know you don’t. So why does your mom want me to play for the Wolves?”

Derek huffed out, looked to the sky for answers and Stiles’ eyes immediately zeroed in on Derek’s exposed neck, on the firmness, on the prominent veins on the sides, on his Adam’s apple, the way it bobbed up and then down as Derek licked his lips and swallowed. At that exact moment, Stiles wanted nothing more than to run his lips, his tongue, all over Derek’s neck, goddamn. But, all Stiles could do was lick his bottom lip, pulling it in and dragging his teeth against it.

“My sister,” he said, pulling Stiles’ attention from his neck and up his face. “Saw the game, and she kind of pitched the idea to my mother when Peter was present, and um, he kind of gushed on and on about you. He really thinks that in order to win next season, we need you on the team. It’s a bit of a slap in the face, but that’s my uncle for you. Anyway, he showed the game to my mother, and she couldn’t look past your talent. But, I imagine you’re used to that, right? What, with you being the best player on your team and all, you must know how the rest of the other teams, the other players, perceive you, right?”  
  
And see, Derek was kind of right, kind of not.

Stiles had no idea how others perceived him, never had a reason to care about what others _thought_ about him. Hadn’t even thought that others thought anything about him, or rather, about his game. And hadn’t really even thought about it till just about a month ago when Derek appeared in front of him and demanded that he get his shit together.

He knew people talked about him, but he had taught himself not to care about what they said, about what they thought because he was never going to live up to other’s expectations, so he chose to ignore them. He wanted to only worry about what he thought of himself. Fuck the rest.

And well, if he’s being perfectly honest, Stiles thought he was good, had sort of known that he was good. Being the main forward for the Cyclones let him know he was good. But, he hadn’t been good at it from the start.

Nope. He was far from it actually.

At the beginning he was this scrawny little eight year old kid, clinically diagnosed with ADHD—oh joy!— who had watched a soccer game and had decided that you know what, he wanted to scream “GOOOOOOOOOOOAL” at the top of his lungs when he maved the ball hit the net. He had never been good at baseball, even though his dad had decided to enroll him in a little league team, he was always warming the bench —and his dad thought you couldn’t really warm a bench in baseball, boy was he wrong.

Anyway, he asked his mom to take him out of baseball, and enroll him in a soccer team— ‘ _please, mom, pretty please_ ,” he had begged— and after almost an hour of persuading, she agreed to do it after he turned his 74 in math to at least a 90. It took four long months, lots of coping with his distraction mechanism and learning how to shut his brain down and only focus on one thing long enough to actually learn something, but after suffering through multiplication and by default division—boo— he bumped his grade to a 93. His mom was so proud, and he was just ready to get in the field.

Once he did though, he was barely able to control the ball. His brain couldn’t put one and two together, and sadly —rather, more _confusingly_ —it couldn’t make his legs and feet coordinate, couldn’t make them connect to the ball. Every time he kicked and tried to chase, and kick again, he failed. It was a simple task, the rest of the team could easily do it, and yet, _he_ couldn’t do it. It caused him frustration and anger. And to top that off, his coach wasn’t patient enough with him, his team mates teased him and called him _clutz-o_. Despite that being the _fucking_ dumbest nickname in the world, the most _unoriginal_ nickname in the universe, it was the cause of many of his eight-year old tears.

So, he started putting in the extra time.

The team only had practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays for one hour, but he practiced every single day, rain or shine. He had no cones, no goal net, so he used bricks for zig-zagging, used his mother’s garden gnomes as his goal posts, and goalie—he actually broke one or two gnomes, maybe twelve, but shh, no knew about that.

Anyway, he put in the extra effort, pushed himself to become better, taught himself new techniques. It got to the point where instead of comic books—well, not instead, but on top of getting comics—he also started checking out books related to soccer from the public library, watched more soccer games—even those from that one Spanish channel his house’s cable plan carried, he didn’t understand a single word of it, but he didn’t watch the games to understand the language; he watched them to learn the players’ movements, their techniques—and soon, he lived and breathed soccer.

He refused to quit and he showed his coach just as much and in turn he was allowed to play. Granted, the first position he took was goalie and he hated being a goalie, he just hated it so fucking much because he felt like his team mates— aside from Scott who could do no wrong and was just so darn pure, bless him— just wanted him to be goalie so that they could have an excuse to hit him with the ball, and he was probably right, those kids probably couldn’t stand his guts. See, Stiles has always been such an insufferable human being. But, after faking to not be able to catch the damn ball—okay, fine, half the time he wasn’t actually faking it, sadly—and getting scored on pretty bad the first three games, he was moved to defense.

Playing defense alongside Scott was tricky because Scott couldn’t wrap his head around how that worked out. He didn’t know how to actually defend, and Stiles knew the kinks of it, the logistics of it, but he wasn’t really good at it and it wasn’t like he could just let Scott take over given that Scott was scared of the ball. So, he decided that Scott and him were both going to improve. He sought him out, literally dragged him away from his television—unless a soccer game was on, then they’d watch that— and slapped his Nintendo out of his hands, replacing it with a soccer ball instead. Together, they improved.

In the end, and despite his efforts, he didn’t really become good at it. He got kind of good at it, but not enough to call him amazing; he was _just_ better than he thought he’d be, better then _anybody_ thought he’d be, really. Scott grew into that position though, Stiles had basically grilled it into his system and Scott was good, not just ‘ _oh, he can get the ball out of the box_ ’ good, but like ‘ _oh, shit he can steal the ball and send it way down mid-field good, the defense is impenetrable_ ’ good. Stiles liked to take credit for that, but he knew damn well that it wasn’t him who had made Scott good because Scott had always been good, Stiles just helped him practice, polish his skills, if you may.

Anyhow, as Scott got more and more comfortable in his position, Stiles did too. But, there was always one kid or the other—mostly fucking Jackson— who kept body slamming into him and he ended up pretty banged up. Seeing him, you’d think he had signed up for football and not soccer. His body was soon covered in scars or bruises and while he didn’t enjoy the pain, he enjoyed the difference each game made on his skills.

After improving a bit more, he was bumped to midfielder and it was like a dream come true for him because, while this meant that he wasn’t center stage —the way he wanted to be— he was one step closer to it. He could move from way down low in the field to the front and actually had a chance to score, not that he did, but you know, he had the chance to and that’s what mattered here.

In any event, following a couple of failed attempts—okay, fine, after taking a lot of Ls— he scored. His mom had been in the audience, despite her telling him she wasn’t feeling well —and not looking all that good—she was there. He was able to scream “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL” at the top of his lungs while running around the field until his coach couldn’t take it anymore and sat his ass down for the rest of the game.

He still remembers that day from the time he woke up, to the time he ate chocolate chip pancakes, to the time he made it to the field a full 30 minutes before the rest of the team was even due to be there to warm up—he needed extra warming up, okay—to when the ball started rolling, to when his mom kept shouting his name, she kept saying ‘ _yes, Stiles, like that baby’_ and ‘ _you almost had it, Stiles, come on_ ,’ to ‘ _that’s my son, that’s my son!!_ ,’ to him scoring, to him running around the field like crazy, to him nuzzling his mom after the game, to her making him a celebratory cake, because while his team lost —per usual—he had scored, and that was a win not only in his eyes, but in his mom’s too.

That’s the first real date that marked his childhood, and he referred to any time up to that date as BMD (before mom died). Because she did. She died just a couple of weeks after his first goal. And it wasn’t like she had just gotten sick one day and died the next. No, she had been sick for a while, a terribly long, _long_ , while. Yet, she still put a very strong front for Stiles up until the day she was hospitalized.

It all went to shit after.

She died six weeks after his first goal.

Six weeks.

Not even four months after, like he had overhead her doctor tell his father one day as he pretended to sleep next to her on her bed. He had been wrong. He said she’d last another four months, maximum eight. And yet, she only lasted six weeks. It hadn’t even been half of the expected amount.

Everything changed after her death.

_He_ changed after her death.

And he wasn’t proud of his change and—he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of his actions, but he never let himself dwell on it too much, tried not to even let that cross his mind, when it did, he’d do what he did every time, and that in its own was something his mother or father would _never_ approve of but that was life, anyway— that made him feel a bit guilty whenever he went back to think about it, which as he already said, he tried really hard not to.

Once she died, he spent most of his time outside on the empty fields, tears down his eyes, and the ball between his feet. It had been his way of coping. Nothing else worked on him, not the therapies, not sleep, not school, not even Scott. All that really helped him was playing. And so, he did that, he played.

The game was the one thing that kept him going. The one thing that made him feel better every time his father couldn’t make it home for dinner, every time his father avoided spending any time alone with him, every time his father had that disapproving look on his face when Stiles came back home with a teacher’s note, every time his father couldn’t make it to his games, every time he missed his mom, every time he remembered he’d never get to see his mom again, the game was what kept him from falling apart. The ball was all he had. And it begin being all he needed.

He played to clear his head.

He played to forget.

He played until his muscles ached, until his feet almost gave out, until his chest felt like it would explode, just to feel, just to remember feeling. Just to remember, and then forget, and go back to functioning in automatic. His classmates, teachers, dad and everyone else, really, mistook this as a sign of rebellion, of insubordination, instead of what it was: a kid, crying out for help.

Stiles didn’t really do much other than play soccer and video games with Scott. Once Scott was gone, he stayed late at night surfing the internet, reading anything and everything he could find in Wikipidia, just to waste time, and to avoid sleep.

He kept all of his classes at a passing C because his dad threaten that if he failed just one class, there’d be no soccer. So, he did the bare minimum academically, despite fully knowing all the material backwards and forwards, he never made more than a C on any of his classes. It was just part of what he was at that moment: Stiles, trying to mentally and physical keep himself from collapsing, but at the same time, throwing himself into a trashcan.

It was as if he was in a swimming pool, keeping himself afloat, always risking ducking his head under the water, but not really doing it because he wasn’t ready to yet. And so, he kept himself alive, someway, somehow, becoming a menace, developing some non-respectable habits, getting no sleep, just popping one too many pills, and feeling good as new. Only, not really.

It wasn’t until Lydia, really, that he cleaned himself up a bit. But, not even then. He was scum to the end. And again, it wasn’t something he was necessarily proud of.

“So,” said Derek. “Are we going to _continue_ to play, or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

Stiles dropped his gaze, he hadn’t even realized he had been staring at Derek.

“Are you _actually_ going to score this time, or should I just go ahead and ask my next question?” asked Stiles in return.

“See, you’re a little shit.”

“I never said I _wasn’t_ a little shit.”

“Shut up.”

Stiles laughed and threw the ball up at the sky.

He knew that whoever caught it next, would be the one to score.

Stiles’ hoped it’d be Derek because well, Stiles had some really good questions, involving Derek’s personal life, Derek’s move to New York, his move back to Beacon Hills and more of that sort, but Derek’s eyes, his voice, his stubble —damn that fucking stubble! Stiles is starting to think that his stubble is a permanent thing, like he’s seen Derek about four times now, and all those times, he’s had that perfect stupid stubble on his face and it’s starting to drive Stiles a bit mad—just Derek in general, really, has made him lose all trend of thought and now, all Stiles’ wants to ask Derek are dumb questions like:

_Do you find me attractive?_

_Does your ass have its own zip code?_

_What does that mouth do?_

_Does everyone rave about your cherry pie? Is it juicy, succulent, and moist?_

See, this is why no one can take him seriously.

As if on cue, as if Derek knew these dumb questions were coming, he scored.

It’s not that Stiles let him score, though, don’t misunderstand. He didn’t _want_ to be stupid and ask dumb questions but at the same time, he would have preferred to ask dumb questions instead of letting Derek score. Because, see, now the score is 2-1. That doesn’t mean Stiles is better, it just means he has one point ahead of Derek. And that’s not winning.

What’s even more fucked up, is that Derek’s question takes Stiles completely by surprise. He never really thought someone would ask him that question, let alone Derek.

Stiles couldn’t help but gape at him in complete and utter shock.

Like not just, mouth open in an, ' _oh shit, what_?’ gesture.

It’s more of a mouth hanging wide open —Jim Carrey in The Mask style—, in a ‘ _holy fucking shit did you just really ask me that question_?’

Derek’s blush was so deep after he realized _that_ question was out there, that _he_ had asked it, that _it_ had come out of his mouth. It was as if he couldn’t _believe_ he had just had a brain fart.

And the thing was, again, the question was out there, there was no taking that back.

Stiles had actually laughed out loud for a good bit before he was able to compose himself enough to be able to respond.

Eventually, and after several attempts from Derek at taking that question back, Stiles cleared his throat, licked his lips, and then he spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 is ready woo~~  
> but it'll be up in like 2-4 weeks because i'm not as ahead on chapters because i've been super busy with work so i don't want to like not have the next chapters ready before i get the other one up!
> 
> anyway, thank you for reading <3


	6. March 19, 2016 - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course I’ll hurt you.  
> Of course you’ll hurt me.  
> Of course we will hurt each other.  
> But this is the very condition of existence.  
> To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter.  
> To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.
> 
> Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if' you've been waiting for me to update this... sorry, i have no excuse for not updating sooner considering this chapter has been ready for a while... it's just been rough fam. 
> 
> ah and zayn's back with new music and it's slaying me ~ go listen to 'let me' it's so sweet :)
> 
> and, you know about kpop? no? if you're not into kpop or heard about it... uh, hm, consider giving it a try (maybe? no pressure!) because bigbang (#kings) is just amazing! i've listened to their songs (as a group and their solos) since like 2009, and whenever i go through a rough patch, like it's been for me recently, their music, their shows, their videos always help me pull thru ~ they're too good for this world. 
> 
> last, thank you for reading ~ sorry i rambled on and gave you info you don't want or need x_x
> 
> x,
> 
> ♥️

Scared my love  
You'll go  
Spend my love  
Heart broke  
So my love don't show  
Scared my love  
You'll go

Too good to be good for me  
Too bad that that's all I need  
Too good to be good for me  
And too bad that that's all I need  
All I need

Too Good ~ Troye Sivan

 

“Do you like boys, too?” Derek asked.

And then he stopped, dead on his track, completely horrified. How could he have asked that?

Stiles gaped at him, like literally, his mouth was hanging so far open, it was ridiculous.

“I meant,” he said, trying to save himself from embarrassment and failing miserably. “I just meant—”

Stiles laughed a big throaty laugh, it was so loud it echoed off the bleachers, and bounced around in his mind, making him slightly dizzy.

“It’s just—”

More laughing.

“—I just—”

The hysterics continued.

He huffed.

“Dude,” managed Stiles between chuckles. “Just, oh God, that’s just so, oh my fucking God, give me a minute here.”

Derek hanged his head.

Now, not only would he lose to Stiles in his fucking field, but he would also lose to Stiles at this dumb truth game, along with his dignity. Great, Stiles would have major bragging rights.

After what seemed like an eternity to Derek, Stiles managed to compose himself, his eyes wet from laughter.

Derek tried again.

“I just meant that,” he begin but stopped himself because you know what? He had meant to ask that question. It was the saddest thing ever, but he was so fucking curious about it. Before his date, Cora told him stories she’d heard from Malia—Malia was still mad at him and was ignoring him, not that he noticed because he didn’t talk to her to begin with, so if she was ignoring him, how was he supposed to know?—about how Stiles had dated both, boys and girls.

There were rumors going around that Stiles’ first kiss had gone to Scott. That he had been found getting a blowjob from a guy at the theater. That he, along with Danny—one of his teammates— were often partying it up at Jungle, the local gay club. There were even rumors that he had once fucked a guy in Lydia’s house, in her bed. Derek tried hard not to be interested in this because he wasn’t, but apparently, his brain refused to be distracted with other pressing matters and just kept dwelling on that specific question, on those specific details.

And to top it off, call Derek crazy, but he felt like Stiles was hitting on him.

“Just ignore that question,” he said in an attempt to save himself, again, the impending humiliation.

“Nope,” said Stiles straightening himself, shaking the last of his laugh off. “The question’s out, dude. Once it’s out, it’s out, it can’t be taken back, and it has to be answered.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “That’s a dumb rule.”

“Hey! I take deep offense to that!”

“Fine. Whatever. Just fucking answer it.”

“You interested?” Stiles asked him, with a shit eating grin.

And Derek felt himself blush, but tried his hardest not to let that get the best of him.

“You wish,” he said with a hard look —he was still blushing, but he was going to look mean doing it.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, with the smallest shrug.

That only made Derek blush deeper because honestly, what the fuck?

“You’re not gay—” begin Derek, but was stopped by Stiles.

“What? I could be!” he protested.

It was bullshit.

He wasn’t. But…

“Not with the way you dress,” he said.

Stiles had the audacity to look appalled. The little shit.

“I did not know that was a clear give away,” said Stiles with dumb smile.

“Shut up. Just, shut up.”

“Well, since you want to know, I’m not,” admitted Stiles running his devilish fingers through his damp hair. “But, I do like dick as much as the next guy.”

“You do realize that in this situation, I’m the next gay— _guy_. I mean _guy_ , I’m the next _guy_ , I’m not gay, I just like boys too,” mumbled Derek, and then felt extremely stupid for saying that. He could have just nodded because the question had been answered, and kicked the ball.

But no, instead, he outed himself to Stiles, who was blinking so fast, moving his mouth to talk, but no words were coming out.

“I’m not ashamed of my sexuality,” he clarified first and for most because he wasn’t. “But it’s not something I brag about. It’s my personal life, and I don’t divulge it.”

Stiles nodded, apparently still unable to talk.

“But,” continued Derek. “Now you know, and not a lot of people do. I’m, um, I’m not saying that I _trust_ you or that I ever will, but my question to you was too personal. I apologize for that, I don’t know what I was thinking. But, you answered it, sort of, anyway, and it was only right I do the same. Again, it’s not something I go telling everyone, so.”

Stiles nodded again.

“Yeah, I get you,” he said, scratching his chin with his fingers, _fuck_ those fingers. “I don’t go around telling people about my life. I’m a very private person, you know?”

Now it was Derek’s turn to chuckle.

Private?

He said Private?

How’s the school knowing about everyone you fuck, _where_ and _when_ you fuck, _private_? How was everyone knowing when he and Lydia where on-or-off private? How was everyone talking about his every move private? How was the school running a fan Twitter and Instagram account posting pictures of his every day, of his every move, private? Nothing about Stiles was private.

“What’s so funny dude?” he asked.

“I just find the fact that you think your life is private funny,” he offered.

Stiles pulled his eyebrows together, in deep concentration before asking, “What does that even mean?”

He just stared back at him with a pointed look. How could he not know?

“Dude?” pressed Stiles.

Derek rolled his eyes.

“How can you not know?” he asked, simply.

“Wait. What am I supposed to know?”

“Everyone talks about you? About everything you’re into, everything you’re doing, all the people you associate with. The gossip that surrounds you, your friends, your girlfriend, or anyone else you’re sleeping with, is outrageous. You’ve got to know,” he said.

Stiles stared at him, his eyes so wide.

Derek didn’t know why given the fact that everyone said that about him, everyone talked about him— according to Malia, anyway. He had to know that everyone knew about what he got up to, that everyone murmured about him, blogged about him, about everything he ever did. The rumors that went around Beacon Hills about him were undeniably known to almost everyone. To prove it, Derek had only been in Beacon Hills for about four months and he had heard just about everything there was to know about Stiles, and not always from his cousin.

“Most of what goes around is unfounded,” said Stiles, with a tight voice and a testy look. “Those rumors you’re referring to—what people say about me, about my friends, about Lydia, and our relationship— are mostly lies and slander. You shouldn’t pay any attention to it. Or, you know, do, up to you, dude.”

Derek understood right then and there that he had fucked up.

He didn’t know what to do, what to say, to go back and not say what he had said.

“Stiles, I, uh, I guess— _no_ , I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.

“Not your fault, dude,” he said shaking his head. “It’s true that I’m talked about, that I’m a ‘hot issue,’ in this shit city and that people talk about me, and that they claim to know all there is to know about me, but those people don’t really _know_ anything. And I’m not like, mad that you’re asking me about this stuff. If anything, I’m upset that you’ve been here for like four months, and yet, you’ve already had to hear this shit about me. That’s kind of fucked up.”

Derek felt bad.

He wanted to apologize, but he didn’t want to make this a bigger deal then it was. Plus, he knew how that felt—people talking about you behind your back saying all kinds of shit. It sucked.

When he injured his leg that was all everyone could talk about, all everyone could ask him about. And when he refused to answer, to give concrete details, people around him started speculating, creating their own stories, and that drove Derek insane. That was one of the reasons he had decided to leave New York.

To this day, he still didn’t want to talk about it with anyone.

His family respected it, they knew what had happened, they knew it was his fault, but no one —except his uncle Peter because he’s a fucking asshole—reminded him of it. He knew now that the people here, his teammates, knew there was something wrong with him because, well, he sometimes wore a brace and because, again, Peter made comments about it, dropped little jabs at him. That asshole.

“People just say what they want to say —deduce things from what they see, what they hear—and eventually, the actual fact, what was actually said, what was actually done, gets lost in translation. It’s like they’re stuck playing telephone like when we were in kindergarten and the teacher made us sit in a circle, whispered to the first kid a phrase like ‘the monkey enjoys napping in his pajamas’ and the last kid came out with ‘the money explodes slapping pink bananas.’ Like I said, ridiculous, and like I’ve stopped listening to it. My friends have stopped listening to it because what’s said about all of us is bullshit.

“I am not going to lie: I’m a popular dude. Every kid in my school —and perhaps in all of Beacon Hills— knows who I am. Every girl I’ve ever slept with wanted to sleep with me and then brag about it. Every guy I’ve ever fucked has done the same. And I know that since you’ve heard all this other shit about me, then you’ve probably heard that me and Lydia are in what these douchebags want to call a toxic relationship. They call us the On-and-Off couple. But that’s a lie. Lydia and I are always on. We have some rules —but that’s a whole different ball game and no one is supposed to know about that, no one really knows about that—and the only thing that you should know, or that I want you to know, is that what they say about me, what’s said about Lydia, they’re way off.”

Derek nodded.

He wanted to know more about that —his relationship with her and everyone else, but he wasn’t about to ask, he couldn’t not when it wasn’t his business to know, not when he was no one to ask—but he didn’t ask. He kept quiet.

“But,” he said clearing his throat. “You’ve ever heard the Spanish proverb: _if the river makes noise it's because it brings rocks_?” he asked glancing at Derek who shook his head no because he never had and it made no sense. “Well, it makes absolutely no sense —like at all, unless you speak Spanish and I’ve been taking Spanish since eighth grade, but even then it makes no sense to me—but that’s not the point—the proverb is supposed to mean something along the lines of ‘if you hear something often enough, loud enough, it must be because there is some truth to it.’ I could have said that to you in those terms and you would’ve understood it better and it would’ve made better sense but my brain was like ‘fuck that, let’s be complicated!’ Anyway, what I mean is that while I am telling you that most of what’s said about me is lies, some of what’s said about me is actually true.”

Derek nodded again.

He wanted to ask him to set the record straight, to spell it out for him. To tell him what is real and what is not. To expose all his secrets because he would desperately cling to his words, lies and truths, so long as he got to know Stiles inside and out. But, he wasn’t in that position.

He would never be in that position.

“And you only asked me one question, but I’ve rambled on, dude, sorry I do that a fucking lot!” said Stiles shaking his head.

“It’s fine,” said Derek not minding at all because again, he had never in his entire life been as curious about anyone else and he wanted to know everything there was to know about Stiles. “I’ve enjoyed all of the unexpected honesty. It’s a good look on you.”

Stiles gave him a small smile, the tip of his ears the lightest shade of pink.

Derek couldn’t help, but smile back at him.

He didn’t know Stiles well, or barely for that matter, and he didn’t know if he would ever actually know all there was to know about him, but he felt he recognized parts of him in the bright sun, in the blue sky, in the cool air breeze, in the twinkle of the stars, in the clear water, in the constellations of the night.

And he had lied.

Stiles was a little shit, but he wanted to trust him.

Because his heart knew him, despite Derek not having a single clue.

“So,” said Stiles, calculative. “You’re telling me you believe every word I’ve said.”

Derek nodded.

“We did agree we’d tell each other the truth,” he begin. “I want to believe _you’re_ telling me the truth.”

Stiles bit his bottom lip, drawing his brows together, in focus.

“Are you, um, are you saying you’re trying to trust me?” he asked, blinking about fifty times in less than two seconds.

Derek nodded, his eyes resting on Stiles’ honey eyes.

“I play for an opposite team,” he begin. “But that doesn’t mean I’m your enemy. I _don’t_ want to be your enemy. I know I fucked up by throwing you against the wall, threatening you. I admit that it was a bit too much. And then I went way overboard with the punching, I didn’t apologize then, and I want to do that now, but I _can’t_ make myself say those five words because I feel like you _deserved_ to be punched. But, that’s neither here or there.

“I moved here from New York, as you know. I lived there for more than seven years and I was never really able to trust anyone there, no one ever earned my trust, nor did I feel like I could trust them. And the one time I tried, I almost lost my ability to walk. It’s funny, right? Anyway, I am not asking for your trust, but I am saying that I am willing to trust you. I want to move past the last month and start from scratch. I want this to be the first day I count as the day I met you, and not the reckless guy in the field from our first game against each other.

“And like I’ve said, I don’t hate you, but you’re absolutely right. I _don’t_ want to play with you. You’re too good to play with me. I want to play against you, test my limits, know that even if I ever think I am good at the game I love, there’s always this other guy who is _incredibly_ , _naturally_ , better than I’ve _ever_ been. I want to play against you on the field, any field, and show myself, show you, that I am good too, and worth _you_ taking the games against me seriously.”

Stiles stared at him awestruck, as if he never in a million years thought Derek would be this honest with him. And, if Derek is being honest —which, if you hadn’t noticed, he clearly is—neither did he. He didn’t know if he’d be able to say that to Stiles, but here he was, telling him the truth. His sister was right. If he didn’t want to play with Stiles, but was already weirdly obsessed over him —be because of his slight attraction towards him or because he wanted to play against him, he was the best okay, don’t fight Derek on this—he might as well tell him so.

“So, if you’re being honest, I am too, and I want you to be honest with me,” said Derek. “That’s why I agreed to your game.”

Stiles ran his tongue against his bottom lip.

“I’ll try to remember that for future purposes,” said Stiles, with an unreadable expression.

Stiles dragged his eyes from Derek’s feet, up his legs, his torso, to his chest, and up his face, where he met Derek’s unwavering gaze.

He didn’t know what they were seeing in each other, and honestly, Derek’s mind was blank. He didn’t feel weird about having bared that much honestly to Stiles, and he didn’t bother lingering on thoughts about what Stiles was thinking about him. Instead, he was trying to memorize Stiles’ face, the way his eyes stared back at Derek with the realization that Derek was nothing if not honest on this matter, the way his eyes seemed to twinkle as they took in the sight of Derek.

They stayed that way for what seemed to be an eternity, but it was only a couple of minutes. Derek was the first to break their silence.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m scoring next, I have a good question.”

“After that first question, I’m really curious as to what your next question will be, dude,” Stiles said with a light chuckle, trying to get back to their game. “But, sorry Hale, that was the only one you’ll score.”

Derek threw the ball determined to catch it and run with it.

He was not going to let Stiles ask anymore questions.

He was not going to lose.

 

~*~

My heart’s against your chest  
Your lips pressed to my neck  
I’m falling for your eyes  
But they don’t know me yet  
And with a feeling I’ll forget, I’m in love now

Kiss me like you wanna be loved  
You wanna be loved  
You wanna be loved  
This feels like falling in love  
We're falling in love  
We're falling in love

Yeah, I’ve been feeling everything  
From hate to love  
From love to lust  
From lust to truth  
I guess that’s how I know you  
So I hold you close to help you give it up

Ed Sheeran - Kiss Me

 

Stiles won.

Of course he had.

Derek, thought he was being an optimist, was determined to win, but in the end, the game had ended the way he knew it would: Stiles scoring twice as much as him.

The final score was 13-6.

Derek had learned about Stiles more than he thought he would considering that he had not been able to ask a lot of questions himself, but Stiles had voluntary offered a lot of the answers to Derek’s unspoken questions.

Stiles told him about how he was not naturally a good player—didn’t even know how Derek had arrived to that conclusion—how he had worked a lot as a child to get to where he was, how at first, because of his ADHD, he wasn’t even really able to focus on the ball, he wasn’t really able to get his feet to function properly. He told him that till this day, there are times when he struggles, which was really hard for Derek to believe. And Derek told him that he wasn’t able to play at all last year because of his injury and how he was still going to physical therapy. Stiles didn’t press for answers as to how he got the injury, and he appreciated him for it.

Stiles told him about how he had been a very unpopular child —Derek didn’t really believe him at first and he told him just as much, but then Stiles had gone into full details of his childhood and wow, Derek had not expected him to actually give him an explanation, and well, it was nice—but once he hit his middle school years, specifically eight grade, he made the leap from the bottom of the pyramid to the top due to him signing up for the school’s soccer team.

Derek told him that he had always been popular —Stiles said ‘ _of course with the way you look_ ’ and Derek had to insist he was not very attractive as a child, that had made Stiles snort in response— because well, he was a _Hale_ , and that in itself counted for something. Plus, he was good at sports and that made him very popular as well, but he told Stiles he didn’t really deal with popularity that well, he didn’t know how to handle it. Stiles had agreed with him and told him that he felt the same way.

He told Stiles about how he doesn’t have any friends, how his best friend is his older sister because he isn’t a social butterfly and he doesn’t function well with other people, he doesn’t know how to. Stiles had told him he understood because he himself didn’t really know how to function with other people, that his best friend was Scott and only because Stiles had practically forced his friendship upon him because Scott was the only person in their eight-year recreational soccer team who wasn’t a complete and utter asshole to him. And, so, as a result, Stiles started imposing his friendship on him.

Derek didn’t press personal questions and neither did Stiles, they talked about what they themselves were comfortable talking about and their truth game turned out to be more of a regular game. It was casual and Derek wanted to do it again, even if Stiles continued to talk his ears off about the most random things.

All in all, even though Derek had lost, he felt like they had somehow tied, and he wanted to play against Stiles again, learn more about him. Derek enjoyed it very much, the sound of his voice was slightly addicting, as was his laugh, his eyes, his hair, his heavy breathing.

Derek’s crush had grown in the span of three hours. Well, shit, he had _not_ —despite Laura’s stupid prediction—seen that coming, like at all.

After Stiles’ stomach grumbled, they called the game off—not without Stiles making sure to say he knew he was going to win, that boy is just so humble—they showered and Derek tried really hard not to think about the fact that Stiles was in the next shower, naked and wet. It was a very distracting and overwhelming thought, but he managed to keep a leveled head, thank God.

He hopped out of the shower before Stiles did and he changed at super speed, his body was still slightly damp, but it would have to do because he was not about to see Stiles wet. No, he was not, no way in hell. He did not need any more images to feed his attraction for Stiles.

At five thirty, Derek led Stiles towards the back of one of his family’s restaurants.

“Why’re we coming all the way to the back?” asked Stiles sitting in the booth opposite Derek.

Derek didn’t want to admit that it was to keep Stiles from running into one of his friends and then ditching him, so he settled for something different.

“Best seat in the house,” he said simply grabbing his menu.

“Most private, too,” he said and Derek blushed. “But, considering it’s one of your family’s joints, I’ll consider it as a good thing.”

Derek hadn’t thought about going anywhere else and then he wondered if he should have.

“You’ve been here?” he asked.

Stiles shook his head.

“No, I’m more of drive thru kind of guy.”

Derek would keep that in mind.

“Guess I should have asked if this was okay first. We can still go somewhere else.”

“Nah, dude. It’s cool, I don’t mind. Plus, if I have to eat at one of the Hale’s restaurants, I might as well do it with a Hale, right?”

Derek nodded.

After a short minute, their waitress greeted them —greeted Stiles really, she even smiled at him and he smiled back—took their drink and appetizer order, surprisingly, Stiles asked for a water —Derek was sure he’d ask for some kind of fruity soda, probably orange—and he got a sparkling water, and of course Stiles laughed. They also ordered some jalapeño poppers and mozzarella sticks.

Stiles slipped out of his jacket and Derek couldn’t help but follow the movement, the way the fabric stretched over the firm muscle, the way the movement made the shirt cling to his firm chest. You know, God is good all the time; and all the tie God is good.

As Stiles turned his gaze to him, their waitress brought their drinks before Derek felt the need to say something, anything, to cover up the fact that he had been checking Stiles out.

“So,” said Stiles he took a sip of his drink. “What do you recommend Hale?”

And honestly, Derek didn’t know. He had not eaten at any of his family’s restaurants since arriving at Beacon Hills because, well, he wasn’t up for it yet. When he was in New York, he often visited one of his family’s restaurants, but that one was Italian food, this was more of a steakhouse. He was sort of hoping that Stiles had already eaten here —he had made sure to ask which restaurant was most visited by high schoolers and his sister had said it was this one—and was kind of disappointed that he hadn’t.

“Honestly,” he said. “I haven’t eaten here before, bu—”

“What? Are freaking kidding me?” asked Stiles.

Derek scrunched his eyebrows.

“I’m not, I, uh, don’t really eat at my family’s restaurants,” he said with a shrug.

“Dude, that’s crazy!”

Derek shrugged again.

“I mean,” begin Stiles. “If my family—my dad— owned a shit ton of restaurants, I’d literally eat there all the fucking time, you have no idea. Like, it would be complete heaven! Can you imagine? I could have pizza one day, then pasta the next, a cheese burger the next, waffles for dinner, and if I wanted to, I could eat fucking pizza forever! I would be so completely and utterly happy, and like maybe a little bigger, thicker. But hey, I like thick. Thick’s okay. Everything’s better thick. The thick life. Thickalicious. Hashtag thick. Like wow, why do I keep saying the word thick? Like you’re gonna hate me, but I am about to say something totally dumb, I cannot not say it, so if you hate it, sorry dude —you will have to suck that shit up—I can’t fucking help it! It comes with the word thick, so, I’m just gonna say it to get it over with, here it goes: _damn, she thick_!”

Derek had no idea what he was talking about, but apparently their waitress did because she immediately chuckled as she set down the appetizers.

Stiles turned and winked at her.

That little shit.

Derek rolled his eyes.

Their waitress blushed.

And Stiles, well he turned to Derek and smiled.

Derek was suddenly upset about the interaction. But, what could he do. He couldn’t very well tell him not fucking flirt with someone else while on a date with him considering that, you know, this wasn’t a real fucking date.

“Stiles,” she said. “Ready to order?”

And, see, Derek hadn’t known, he had just _known_ , that she knew his name —that she _knew_ him.

“I still need a little time,” he said, reaching for a popper.

She turned to Derek. “How about you?”

“Not yet,” he replied very curtly.

“Alright, well I’ll be back in just a little while,” she said as she left, but not before throwing a smile at Stiles.

Stiles didn’t smile back though, so there was that.

“I kind of want a bacon cheeseburger,” said Stiles. “But, I also kind of want some mac and cheese, but also kind of want some wings, and holy shit, you guys have _chili cheese fries_? Woah!”

Derek smiled.

Stiles loved food, and that for some unexpected reason, tugged at Derek’s chest. He wanted to feed him. He wanted nothing more than to see him well fed, and happy about being able to eat all the food he wanted. He was just so small it concerned Derek. And when he thought about it, Stiles wasn’t really that small. In fact, he was probably the same height as Derek, maybe an inch taller, and he was buff and muscly in all in the right places.

It was beautiful.

He was perfect.

For the game, he meant. His body was perfectly fit to play soccer, that’s what Derek had meant.

Yeah.

“You can order it all,” he said.

As soon as the words were out, Stiles lowered his menu and stared at him, his eyes were suddenly so soft, if it were even possible they bordered on the color of warm honey.

“Dude,” said Stiles, still looking at him through the warmest eyes. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Derek shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said because it was. He could afford to pay for all of it, but he wasn’t even going to have to pay.

Stiles shook his head.

“You can order it all, and we can share. How’s that?”

Again, Stiles looked at him, his eyes still warmer than the sun.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Yeah, we can, we can do that.”

“Alright,” he said as he waived their waitress over.

“Ready?” she asked.

Derek nodded.

“We will have a medium well bacon cheeseburger, no pickles—those are hella gross, please keep them away or I will throw up,” said Stiles. “An order of bacon mac and cheese, the order of twelve medium-buffalo bone-in wings, and an order of chili cheese fries.”

The waitress nodded, as she wrote it all down.

“Will that be all?” she asked looking to Derek, but Stiles answered.

“Yeah, we’re sharing.”

“Okay, I’ll put this in and we will have it out to you shortly.”

“Thanks, Heather!”

“Sure,” she said as she took the menus and left.

Now that Stiles had said her name, he no longer wondered if he knew her. He wanted desperately to know how he knew her. He needed to know, but he knew better than to ask. It would be weird if he asked.

“So, how do you know her?” he asked, and immediately regretted asking him because what the fuck? He was about to start convincing himself that he didn’t need to know, that he was not going to ask. That there was no reason to ask.

Stiles took a bite of a mozzarella stick before he spoke.

“Are we still playing the honesty game?” he asked between chews.

And Derek wanted to tell him that he wanted nothing if not honesty from him, but he didn’t know how to say that to him without it making him sound slightly obsessed and creepy. But, he wanted to remind him that he had said that he wanted them to tell the truth to each other. Had they not agreed on that earlier?

He shook his head no, because what else could he do.

“I do know her,” said Stiles. “I’m surprised you don’t.”

How was Derek supposed to know her?

“Why would I know her?” he asked as he reached for a popper.

“Dude,” Stiles begin. “She’s the Student Treasurer at your Academy.”

Derek hadn’t known.

“I had no clue,” he said because he didn’t.

“Well, now you do.”

Derek nodded as Stiles popped another popper in his mouth.

“That still doesn’t answer the ‘how’?” asked Derek as he chewed on a mozzarella cheese stick. He didn’t want to press it, but here he was pressing it.

Stiles nodded.

“No, it does not.”

Derek popped another popper in his mouth, ready to let it go because it wasn’t —it shouldn’t— be any of his concern.

“I don’t want to say, not because I don’t trust you, but because I am a gentleman,” he said solemnly.

Derek just stared at him.

He truly didn’t want to know.

“I’m kidding,” he said with a laugh.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Dude, she used to go to my high school before she moved to yours and she used to be a part of Lydia’s math club. I’m still a member, because Lydia would literally stop attending my soccer games if I quit, so. Anyway, she used to be a member. She was never really a part of my circle but, that, uh, didn’t, uh, stop her from trying… and it didn’t bother me, but, well, Lydia. Erica. And I. Yeah. It just, uh, didn’t work out.”

Lydia.

Erica.

They hadn’t deemed her good enough to hang with them —with Stiles—and Stiles hadn’t fought them on it, despite him having said that he didn’t have a problem with her. And he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if they, all of them, would have a problem with him trying to get close to Stiles, considering that Derek wanted to be close to Stiles.

Derek didn’t ask more questions.

He just focused on eating.

After a while, their food got there along with a water refill for Stiles.

They shared the food, Stiles literally moaned into his first bite of the mac and cheese and Derek did not think it was the sexiest thing ever. Shut up, he did not.

That moan broke the silence for them, though.

Stiles went into a rant about mac and cheese. He talked about how the Hale’s mac and cheese was the fucking best —and he wondered if it was because of the added bacon—Derek didn’t think it was the best, but it was decent and he told him so. Stiles scoffed and told him about a mac and cheese he had once tried at a diner with Scott after a game last year. He said that it had tasted like ass, but then said, “well, ass is an acquired taste—so let’s just say that it tasted like vomit because you _can’t_ eat vomit for sure.”

Derek blushed vigorously.

Stiles giggled.

The dick.

“Dude,” he said. “You’re nothing like I thought you were.”

Derek hadn’t known what to say other than, “How so?”

Stiles took a bite of the burger, and Derek held his breath. He had obviously known that Stiles had made some kind of assumption about him because he had made an assumptions about Stiles, too. And if he perhaps thought that Derek was a dick, that he was an ass, that he was trash, then obviously, Derek had intended to change his opinion about him in that aspect.

“You’re a softie,” he said simply as he went for his water.

Derek didn’t know what to say. Because how?

He drew his eyebrows together as he took a one of the chili cheese fries.

“Like, it’s not bad,” continued Stiles in between chews. “I mean, you had me thinking that you were a complete hard ass —your ass looks hard, though, so I guess I’m not totally and completely wrong about that, you work out, huh?—like I thought you were this complete impenetrable guy, unapproachable, an all around dick. But no, you’re not. You’re just a big guy with and even bigger soft side. It’s a real good look on you.

“Everything about you screams soft, now that I think about it. You’re eyes are like the softest shade of blue, your scruff looks soft —so incredibly soft, dude, wow—your hair looks good, soft, all of you does, but like your hair looks so fucking, unbelievably soft, it’s amazing. It makes my fingers tingle. I don’t know why I’m even saying this because that was just something I was thinking about and was totally not going to talk about it, specially not to you, but here I am, telling you that I think you’re soft, that everything about you looks so irresistibly soft and warm. My brain is a fucking dick.”

Derek gaped at him.

How could Stiles say these things in the middle of a restaurant all nonchalant?

How could Derek think it was something worth making his breath cease?

How could Stiles’ words make his heart skyrocket?

How could he feel so taken by Stiles?

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” said Stiles as the silence between them stretched. “I mean, that’s just what I see in you because I’ve spent all this time with you. Granted, it wasn’t that long, but you’ve been nothing but honest during the whole time —or I like to think you have—so, it’s just something I notice? I feel? I don’t know. And, like I said I was going to keep it to myself, but my brain said ‘fuck that, have some word vomit’ so here I am, making you feel uneasy, my bad dude. And if it makes you feel any better, I am not going to go around telling people that Derek Hale, dubbed as ‘Derek Stone Cold Hale’ is just ‘Derek Warm and Soft Hale.’ Don’t worry about that.”

Warm.

Derek’s cheeks felt warm.

So, so incredibly warm.

“Shut up,” he said as he sipped his drink.

Stiles laughed.

The rest of their dinner was spent like that, mostly.

Stiles told Derek random facts about food, constantly told him the food at the restaurant was good. Said he want to back for more food, but that if he did, it’d have to be with Derek. That made Derek feel warm again, and it sucked.

After their food was completely gone, like all of it, the waitress came back. She gave them a check, the total came out close to $150, but the amount due was $0.00.

As expected.

He slipped in $30 for her tip and he lead Stiles out of the restaurant through the back because well, he wanted to avoid running into any of Stiles’ friends. Stiles followed, telling him that he had always wanted to slip out of a restaurant through a secret back door to make him feel like a complete badass, or at least like a bit of a gangster.

“Am I leaving? Or do I have someone tied back here who’s throat I’m about to slit? Or, is someone here to deliver two suitcases full of money? Or maybe drugs? People will never know, I will never tell,” he had said as they moved through the kitchen.

Derek wanted to tell him to shut up, but the date was drawing to a close and he wanted to hear his voice for as long as he could. So, he let him talk, remembering all the ways his voice made every nerve in Derek’s body vibrate.

He led them to the car, and got them on the road. The drive to Stiles’ house was quiet, except for the sound of _Her’s Quite Like_ playing in the background. He thought about opting out of playing his own playlist, and playing something from the generic playlists on Spotify, but then he’d run the risk of listening to some stupid pop song going on and on about how it might be too late to say sorry, and he was not about that life.

Stiles didn’t say a word, he just kept his eyes on the road, and so did Derek, focusing on the sound of his breathing. Every now and then, he’d turn to face him, and every time he was surprised to catch Stiles’ staring back at his. Derek averted his eyes immediately, but Stiles didn’t. He could feel his eyes on the side of his face.

At seven twenty-one, he stopped the Camaro in front of Stiles’ house. The Jeep was not in the driveway, and Stiles said nothing about it.

“Come on, Hale, help me with my stuff,” said Stiles hopping out of the car and immediately heading for the trunk.

He wouldn’t be long, so he decided not to cut the engine. He popped the trunk, and slipped out of the vehicle letting the _Cigarettes After Sex’s Affection_ play.

When he reached the trunk, Stiles already had his duffel back around his shoulder.

“You have everything?” he asked.

Stiles nodded.

“I think so, I mean, I didn’t leave it open, so everything’s here, I think,” he responded with a small smile.

Derek nodded.

“I, uh,” said Stiles’ clearing his throat and pulling his eyebrows together. “Have to admit that I had a really nice time, Hale.”

“Me too,” said Derek so easily as he closed the trunk.

“I don’t know how much I’m supposed to say, and how much of this you want to hear, but I really, really, enjoyed your company. I, uh, thought it would be super weird between us, what with you like not liking me, and being a dick about you not liking me, but like, it wasn’t that bad. If, hmm, if anything, I, uh, I’d like for us to do this again—the game, I mean— but no pressure though. If you can’t, or, uh, don’t want to repeat that, that’s cool too. I’ll totally understand.”

Stiles said the last words shifting his gaze to his feet.

Of course Derek wanted a repeat of their game. He wanted a repeat of their date really, but that was something that wouldn’t be repeated. Ever.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Sure. You have my number, text me when you’re free and we can meet up.”

His words had come out clearer, stronger, than he felt. And that was actually a good thing.

Stiles looked up at him, with an unexpected endearing, overly charming, smile.

And at that exact moment, the sunlight from the setting sun caught Stiles’ eyes, changing the burnt caramel, into warm honey, then gold, then champaign, all in under two seconds. Derek’s chest felt tight, his breath caught, his bottom lip quivered.

Stiles champaign eyes had quickly pierced themselves into his chest, and it was the most frightening thing he had ever felt.

“Okay,” said Stiles. “I will.”

Derek nodded.

“I’ll be on my way then,” he said.

He turned to leave, but Stiles stopped him.

In a swift movement, Stiles’ slim fingers wrapped themselves around Derek’s holding him in his place, pulling him back towards him.

Derek met his unwavering gaze, with his mouth slightly parted.

Stiles’ face was completely unguarded, completely and utterly earnest, and again, that was such a good look on him.

“Can’t leave without a kiss, Hale,” said Stiles not releasing his fingers. “Date Auction Rules, I’m afraid.”

Derek’s eyes widen in slight horror.

“You don’t have to,” he said simply because he didn’t want to force Stiles to kiss him.

But above that, he didn’t want to feel his warm breath against his skin, he didn’t want to learn the taste of his lips, he didn’t want to memorize the feel of his mouth, against his. It would be far too much to bare.

“It’ll be okay,” said Stiles, his voice suddenly softer than silk. “I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. Come,” he continued gently pulling him forward.

And Derek gave in.

He took that extra step.

“You really don’t—” he begin.

But Stiles’ smile grew warmer softer as he held Derek’s eyes.

“I want,” said Stiles, his voice almost a whisper.

Stiles leaned in and Derek held his breath.

He could feel Stiles’ body warmth against him, and surprisingly, fervently so, he had to fight the urge to surge forward and crush his lips against Stiles’. He had to mentally fight against himself to keep his hands from wrapping themselves around Stiles’ waist, and pull him against him.

In return, and utterly unexpectedly, Stiles leaned forward, and lightly pressed his lips to Derek’s, held them there for all but a second, and they were so incredibly warm, inviting, and above all, soft. It was just a light touch of lips, so chaste, yet so enticing.

Stiles pulled back slightly to look Derek in the eyes, and Derek held his for all but a second before deciding that he was going to do the one thing he told himself he wouldn’t do, the one thing he had been wanting to do so badly, yet told himself he mustn’t do—told himself that he was not allowed to do: he leaned in and pulled Stiles forward.

This time, the kiss was so incredibly passionate, so raw, so breathtaking. Immediately, one of Stiles’ hands ended on Derek’s shoulder before worming his fingers to the sides of Derek’s neck, and Derek shuttered as his cool fingers made contact with the warm skin. He slid his fingers from the side, right below his jaw, to the back of his neck, and pulled him forward. Stiles wrapped his other arm around his waist, pulling him incredibly close against him.

Everything stilled, everything disappeared, nothing but him and Stiles existed. Nothing else mattered, the world ended and started with the taste of Stiles’ mouth, with his touch, with the warmth of his body against his, with the feel of his breath against his skin, the smell of soap and a hint of some musky cologne Derek didn’t know what it was, but it was the most amazing smell he had ever inhaled, that along with everything Stiles was emitting made him dizzy, made his brain foggy. Derek’s knees buckled under everything he was feeling, and he couldn’t believe he was still standing, he didn’t know how he was still standing.

Inevitably, Stiles pulled back, heaving, and he ran the tip of his nose against the tip of Derek’s chin, his lashes tickled Derek’s bottom lip, then moved along his jaw, all the way up his ear, down the vein of his neck, taking a deep breath there, sending shivers all over Derek’s body, and then tracing his nose back up his neck, all the way up his ear, and landing a warm, chaste kiss right at the tip of his jaw.

Stiles pulled back, his eyes glazed over, and Derek couldn’t breathe. And at that moment, he realized then that somehow, at some point, he had placed his hands on Stiles’ hips, and that had been his support, what had kept him standing.

Derek could physically feel Stiles’ breath stagger. Or it could’ve just been his.

Stiles closed his eyes, took in a long drag of air as he licked his lips, and just like that, he was back to being himself. He released his grip on Derek’s neck and arm, moved his hands to Derek’s pulling them off his hips, gently.

“I’ll see you around, Hale,” he said giving him a tiny wink, as he retreated from his space, pushed Derek’s hands back, took one last long drag of his eyes over Derek’s lips, smiled, and walked towards his house.

And Derek, well Derek felt like he would die right then and there.

Everything ended for him as soon as he saw Stiles’ face, the touch of skin, his lips against his, against his neck, turned his world upside down, without reason or rhyme, Derek’s world, his heart collapsed right there and then.

Stiles’ kiss had been more chaste, more pure, and more passionate than he had ever imagined it would be.

It had been the most intimate thing he had ever felt.

It had been so personal, so surreal.

It had been breathtaking. 

It had been everything Derek had not want it to be.

Well, shit. 

He was fucked. 

So fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. 
> 
> i will try to update soon, but i've hit an unexpected little rough place. like yk how like in your mind yk where and how your writing needs to go but when you write it down it doesn't flow? like? it's happening now to me and i'm shook!
> 
> oh oh oh oh oh and how bout that beyonce performance at coachella? she #killedit it was fucking #iconic she's such a #queen

**Author's Note:**

> So, that was that. 
> 
> first chapter done ~ woo. next one should be up in 1 to 2 weeks.
> 
> songs for this chapter:
> 
> * HAM - Kanye West
> 
> * Company - JB


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